Point2Point

I headed into down town Bucharest with "Itchy Beard" in a search for food and a book store. Itchy Beard was travelling overland to help save the environment, each to their own I thought. We are a Kebab, he was on a very low budget, no problems. Though I knew the Kebab would cause my stomach problems the moment I tasted the cold meat inside. He also had no guidebook, and no idea about visas. Hmm, I got an impression straight way, not so independent traveller nor planned out.

We walked the main streets, and for the first time I opted for the city bus rather than the metro. My first impressions of Bucharest were, Ceaucescu's demolishions of the beautiful buildings, to build his version of the Chancelisa (spelt wrong I know). Streets were wide, and teeming with people. Modern shops and malls were at every corner, lacking my TB of course. Mc Donalds ruled, strip clubs and casinos outnumbers the bars it seemed. I found a temporary TB, but not the exact. Itchy Beard was heavy on the environment, and his conversation was more of Anti-USA rather than, what about the trip and the visas! Still, I felt we were both heading in the same direction, so we will keep the conversation as neutral as possible.

Night came, and the Romania Germany Soccer match frenzy answered why the hostel was so full. We headed off to find and inspect the other hostels, all full. Our tour on Bucharest at night did little for my impression on Bucharest as a city. Rumours of 200,000 wild street dogs could easily be confirmed as we veered down darkened streets and snarling dogs greeted us, and followed in parts. We found a hostel in a bullet ridden courtyard of a military base and pre booked for the next day. Earplugs in, I settled in for a night of interruptions by drunken German soccer fans.

The following day we made the move to the new hostel. A friendly wave goodbye to the hostel owner resulted in her giant dirty white poodle taking a bite at my hand, no puncture wounds, but added value to the roaming wild dog stories in Bucharest.

We roamed Bucharest for the day, searching for interest. The 1989 revolution square brought an air of depression. Not for the people who lost there lives, but for the lack of care the city had made in remembering them. A few black and white metal crosses marked the spots they fell, a serious lacking of feeling. Itchy Beard ate peanuts for lunch, apparently holding onto his 1 dollar a day food budget while I went for a chicken and rice meal at a scary 10euro. Internet cafe's were next to impossible to find, and the city was getting heavier. So tickets to Istanbul were bought, Itchy Beard swearing that he was going to find a hostel for under 3 euro there, internet, TB and myself having no effect on this world of eco love.

After a day of listening to Itchy Beards safe the world, and bring back communism I told him I was going out for some alone time, while also eating my last European meal. I circled the train station in a hope of finding something other than McDonalds or a Pizza cafe. Instead my eyes and senses got Wild dogs roaming around, zombie like drug addicts staring into space. Plastic bags, filled with glue attached to some mouths highlighted more of Bucharest. Bodies lying on cardboard around the green areas stared vacantly out into nowhere, how I wish I had the gumption to take a photo. But the amount of drugged people was huge, and a flashing tourist camera in there face made be feel uneasy. There were no police in sight, any where in Bucharest. A young 10-11 year old girl was staring at me from a dark park area, dresses in stained and torn clothes. Homeless I suspected. She looked away by moving her whole head, her eyes remaining straight ahead. I walked by. Up ahead there was a group of similarly aged and dressed girls, two at least breathing into plastic bags. I walked by and as I did a teenage boy appeared from behind a tree to join the girls. He nodded towards me, and a few of the turned, mouthing words to themselves. My pace quickened in the dark streets. I crossed the road past a casino where two 40+ men were huffing on glue. To this day I regret not taking photos.

Further into my travels I met others who had stayed the night in Bucharest train station, or spent a few days in the city. We all agreed. Bucharest was a shit hole city.

The train left at 1.30pm and I was loaded up on train station sandwiches, red bull and a big bottle of water for the 19 hour trip to Istanbul. Itchy Beard was standing by on the full platform with his packet of dried fruit and decided this was the best time to re pack his backpack. By the time his passport was on the ground two feet away from him and in clear pick up vicinity to everyone else, I knew we would not be travel companions for much longer.

I boarded the train and was ushered to my carriage ahead of everyone else by the train attendant. The compartment door was locked and the curtains drawn, the attendant knocked, twice. A skinny bearded face appeared, American, had to be. Allan open the door and welcomed me in with suspicion. Asking the door be locked again, and for me not to put my backpack on his freshly made bed, still he was a nice seeming guy. Itchy Beard arrived, and conversation started, based on USA politics of course, and the environment. I am sure Itchy Beard was the source of many a persons snigger, still he too was quite harmless. And when our compartment was then joined by a French student hitch-hiking his way to Turkey I got the change of feeling that as we headed out of Europe the type of traveller was changing too. I was in a compartment with a nice mix of people, good conversation, food, and the excitement of leaving the EU, and soon to be in the ancient city of Istanbul.

A little delay on the train meant I met a nice Romanian American couple, who knew the secret to East Europe train carriage identification. Still my own carriage was a 420, seat 61. I opened the door to find the compartment full. One of the things that annoys me in travelling is another traveller who does not bother to say hello, even after passing each other 4-5 times in a day. Here in my compartment sat such a duo. They looked like mother and daughter, with American accents, and the mother promptly sat in my seat. First I confirmed it was the right carriage, my gut instinct told me they had guilty eyes. They shuffled and as all the others eats were full seemed reluctant to more. I local said for me to try another compartment. I looked next door, full. So I barged bags and all into my rightful compartment, and said " Too bad folks, this is where my ticket says I paid to be, and I ain't moving, so push over." The Romanian's laughed, the Americans shuddered. I pushed and shoved my big backpack in, squashed toes and, said "Sorry, but I really don't care, this is my place."

A young Romanian guy, got up and sat outside in the hallway, of the carriage. To be honest I felt a little sorry for him, the stout American mother continued to sit cold faced doing her embroidery. As part of my revenge I chirped in lots of sarcastic but very friendly comments about my sandwich smelling a bit, but not a bad as my feet. I enjoyed. Sat back, and looked out the window as my final view of the Carpathians rolled by. Big, dramatic, bold, rugged and worth more than my few days of a visit. Having said that, as I sat there I knew that as an outsider one good never spend enough time in a country. You come, you see what you want to and you leave, or maybe stay for a lifetime. But for local you will never have seen everywhere in a country, perhaps not even in a lifetime. There will always be a place, a town, a wall, a field or a person that someone will tell you is the best thing in the country.

I read from my "Travels in Afghanistan" book, thinking of my voyage across Europe in neat solitude, would the rest of my journey be like this? To travel alone at certain points is blissful, you can do what you want, when you want it. But to travel with a good companion is great too, as you always have a back up and conversation. I continued to read, and came across the following from the book:

"I encouraged him, in the usual way that you wish for others what really you want for yourself, to have complete confidence in himself and never be afraid to be alone, to further his travels and always question the meaning of things."
Jason Elliot (An Unexpected Light, Travels in Afghanistan)

I was starting to yearn for mountain travel in Afghanistan, or possibly Kazakhstan.

We pulled into Bucharest. I noted a few backpackers ahead in the train, and I stepped up the pace out of the station. Not to catch up with them, but to get to the nearest hostel before them... well, I was a solitary traveller after all! Though as usual I took an immediate left turn rather than a right, and was semi off the path for 30 mins. Nonetheless I made my was to a non TB hostel called Friends and was checked in by a slightly stoned Romanian girl, in a what it seemed like a very full hostel. I scraggy bearded guy appeared at the doorway, paying off a taxi man. I told him that I thought there was one more bed above mine that was left. Then said I had to go away to try to buy a TB on a certain country. His eyes flashed and he said he was going to the same countries along the same route as me...

Sighisoara
The train journey was just fine, barring the fact I still haven't mastered the task of how to identify carriage numbers (they really do not number them). Sufficed to say there were some other backpackers getting on-board and so I followed them in hope the not so nice ticket lady had put us all together. Nope, the Dutch girls knew how to read the ticket and told me I was at the opposite end, and in reality their carriage was full. I headed out and ran to the first carriage asking stupid questions (like what carriage does my ticket say) along the way to various uniformed people. I got on-board one minute before we headed off. I think the trick is to actually count the carriages and not pay any attention to the numbers on the side as they are all quite random!

I began to read both my TB and the great "Travels in Afganistan" book I was reading, and I began to think about my visa worries. Time was up. Sofia was a place to go for one visa, but then there was the choice of Istanbul, or Bucharesti. The guy in the book travelled with no guide book, but spoke Persian quite well, though he doubts it himself. I began to doubt myself a lot as I read and thought about both our journeys. I had a target of no later than 1/1/08 to be somewhere. That was photo time. If I was late, then no photo due to dust. But what of the journey in between, if the Visas get screwed up do I extend time and take another route or take a dreaded flight. The BCN Stuttgart fiasco told me no flights, that was what my instinct was telling me too. And then deep inside there was also...finding home...

I arrived in Sighisoara at exactly 12.02, one minute late (damn these east europe trains were good, up yours Eurolines). I headed straight for the little ticket office and asked for the timetable to Bucharesti, no problems 9.30am. Then it was to the main road where I thought my TB map would once again fail me. So spotting the tourist info "I" across the road I headed over to the office. However the office was a bar, nonetheless the girl reassured me, and the first hostel on my map was literally across the road. I then got the feeling that Sighisoara was a very small place. I went to the hostel and waited for 5 minutes before someone showed up, I asked the most important question, "Do you have a washing machine?"
"Yes", but little else was said.
If the town was this small then no problem I would head off and look at the other hostels conveniently dotted along the same road. Next up was the little Ellen Villa. I met the Germanic lady and immediately got into a language barrier problem, she spoke Romanian, German and her daughter spoke Spanish... meaning she knew a few words... bar the word for washing machine. Anyway, she managed to get me inside, and the rooms were nice, no bunks, single beds, en suite, but no locker, also no other guests. I said yes, and she immediately changed her tune and became a friendly lady in her 50's. I asked about the washing machine again and then it was no problem. Also the internet, this is when the subject of her daughter came up again, apparently she ran an internet cafe in town. I bundled my laundry together and followed her down to the cellar whereby I loaded it all in. It was then that the lady took me in hand and guided me into the next near barren room...

It was obviously a little shrine to Jesus Christ, as his picture was all over the place along with burning candles and flowers. Oh dear, please let her not make me say a prayer or something?!! Through a mixture of Spanish (Romanian has a Latin base) she shuffled me over to the corner... still not having a clue what was going on she crouched down to the brick covered ground and started signalling me to follow suit. Hmmm, I stared at the bit of ground she was pointing to and then it clicked! I was looking at a stain on one of the bricks that took the shape of Jesus... she thought her house was blessed!! For the next hour we chatted on about the other stains in her brick floor that resembled various saints and so on. She had me standing near a footprint of Jesus hand outstretched to feel the vibrations in the air, and in my fingers, and foot. Ok, any time you outstretch your hand at an angle you get the tingles, and yes I did feel something in my right foot, an itch. But I have seen many things in the world, and as she was a nice lady, I played along. After all she also told me that the tingling sensation was meant to have healing powers. So why not, this was the leg with many afflictions. Then another older lady shuffled into the cellar, blessing herself by the stained bricks... The pseudo Spanish, Romanian, English conversation then changed to people, politics, Cesaucescu's days here in Romania, and how everyone was leaving for Italy... hmm, it was here my host burst into tears... oh dear, how did I end up here again? Normally I would have bolted, but to be honest I was enjoying Romania so much, and now I was getting to be apart of "normal life"... well, maybe. Anyway 10 years ago I would have run away, now I took it in stride.

I followed the little old lady and host out into a beautiful grape vine covered garden, grapes hanging from the roof and floors adorning the garden. Yes it was a good choice to stay there. Talk of the internet came again, and the lady shuffled off only to reappear with car keys, offering me a lift to her daughters house. We headed off into the citadel some 5 minutes away. Only it turned out I was lost in translation again, and her daughter did not own a cyber cafe, but did in fact have her own hostel, with internet which I was free to use. And I did, for 2 hours, for free. Romanian hospitality was making be enjoy the place even more.

I had a giant pizza just out of the old citadel, for an amazing 2.50 Euro, but was back to tiny 20ml coke bottles again. It was now I realised how small the town was, you could do it on a day trip from Brasov. 3 hours tops. Even the lady in the tourist office struggled when I told her I needed something to do for two days. Without car she said, not much. So I visited the stature to Vlad, saw Vlad's house as a kid, and noted that the three museums were closed until tomorrow. I found another internet, and decided that the next day would consist of book reading and visa preparation.

I took a tour of the town and saw little but roadworks, and reconstruction, it was like they were rebuilding the place.
A quick jaunt up the 176 steps of the wooden walkway leading the "Church and School on the Hill" and I had basically seen the place, including Vlad's poorly made statue. A cheerful little dog did follow me around the "Church on the Hill" erm, yes it does have another name but for now that's what's written on the map. I headed back to the centre of the citadel and pondered about for about 30 mins, should I go into the former residence of Vlad, the father was Vlad Dracul, that had been converted into a restaurant or avoid tourist temptation? I walked around some more, and then said to fuck it I wanted a steak fantasy and charged in, ready to see tourists and stupid black cloaks everywhere.

I headed up the stairs to the first seating area, empty, then to the lounge bar, also completely empty?!! Wrought black chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, the walls half dark terracotta half royal green. Seven small heavy dark wooden tables lined the oak floor surrounded by high backed wooden chairs set in dark red material. Two traditionally dresses middle aged ladies stood by the bar. I sat at the end of the room, full view of all, lord & master!!! A painting of Vlad hung from one wall, a painting of his stake implanted victims hung high above in front, with he having a meal amongst the suffering. Traditional string music from a few hundred years ago played as I ordered red wine and steak. The only shocking thing about the place was the price of the food, my meal would cost me 20Euro it seemed, but really and truly I was lost in my fantasy world, alone at the head of the table, two peasant wenches serving me red meat and wine!!

I am not ashamed to say that being lost in that medieval high brought a tear to my eyes, I simply could not have asked for more. I was granted 30 minutes of this private solitude at the head of the banquet table before people started to arrive in. Cameras in hand, and flash bulbs lighting the place up as people posed by the paintings. The food was not great, indeed a chestnut mash is very heavy, however so were my Hammer House memories. A highlight of my trip so far that I am not sure anyone else would understand.

I headed back to the house, read a little and slept.

The next day I headed off to the museums, apparently one 10 Lei ticket bought you entrance into all three museums. Unfortunately as I entered the clock tower museum the gruff woman said the Torture museum was closed. Hmmm, it was the only one worth seeing apparently. I paid 5 Lei for the clock tower and headed through a mostly boring place consisting of the usual pottery, jars, book or two, and an odd pair of shoes. The thing about Romanian tourism is that they are trying, but not quite getting it right. The entrance is only 5lei, yet for the privilege of having taking photos they wanted a whopping 20lei, a video was another 25 lei?!!! I went to the top, and although I could have snuck in a photo, nothing really inspired me from the 360 degree view of the citadel. Indeed Sigisuara looked as if it was being built from the ground up as a purpose built tourist trap. Roads were unearthed, churches, towers and any thing of interest were covered in scaffolding. It was easy to imagine the place in the 12th century, witches, markets, prisons, battles, and the smell of such things. But today it was being rebuilt into a tourist haven. In this tiny, seen everything in 3 hours town, there was a total of 7 hostels. Yet in Brasov there were only 2??? Why!?? Maybe Brasov is not wanting the club 18-22 party crowd. Yet their giant Hollywood naming sign dismissed any sign of taste they had.

Lunch, another wander around, and internet in one of the only two working internet cafe's they had.... hmmm, get your stuff right Romanian tourist board!! At least I had my ticket to Bucharesti, though it would seem I had not mastered the art of train travel in east Europe, I was in carriage 450... not really possible!!

BRASOV

My alarm sounded, we were approaching Brasov, and it was still pitch dark outside. I pulled my bags down and bid a sleepy farewell to all in the compartment, purposely forgetting about moving the red monolith down again I made my escape from the train.

I was in Brasov, and immediately my travel ideas of arriving in a small town were quashed my the throngs of people throughout the station. This was worse than Budapest station, only now I was seriously sleep deprived. I followed my travelers instinct and made my way out of the station in haste, but was confronted by even more people. What were so many people doing up at 6am??? A lone traveler in the dark makes for an easy target, so with my head down I kept walking until I could get to a clear space to make my bearings. By way of my compass I was able to take the opposite direction the TB said to take, and took the long road into town. Street names were hard to come by, making life difficult (take not tourist boards around the globe). The TB map told of different street names, and I cursed them verbally for being idiots. Clear Directions from a train or bus stations are critical to travelers. Finally I saw a sign called Centro, so I followed. Stopping once to ask a man by his car if I was heading in the right direction, he confirmed and I continued. I walked for over and hour, youths following at one stage and the night still holding firm. Taking the number 4 bus might have helped, but the situation at the station, told me to just keep walking. I asked a few more people if I was headed in the right direction, one woman and child shaking their heads as if I big monster was approaching, though in hindsight I must have looked a bit rough at this stage. Finally I met a lady who, pointed me in the right direction for the town center. The TB still hadn't listed a single street I was on.

I finally made it to the center and even located the house number for the hostel, only... no hostel. Bugger!! I would have to stay at one of the TB recommended hostels. I sat on a bench and ate my squashed subway as dawn broke. Early morning passersby looking on at me like I was some homeless derelict, well ... I was homeless!!

I headed off again, cursing the TB map for not giving good directions to the only two hostels in Brasov. I made it to the Kismet Hostel, utterly exhausted. An older gent was in the garden having an early morning smoke, raising some hope that this was not a party hostel. All hopes were dashed inside though. Beer cans, stale smoke and sheets littered the floors. I cringed. A rough looking youngster said to give him 5 minutes, no beds were ready. I sat in the living room. The check out time was 12noon, this was going to be a long 5 minutes, me thinks. During my wait I flicked through the TB and wondered why I had never stopped by the guest houses they mentioned for only 10 euro a night. I began to think it would be a better idea. But as I was leaving a bed became available, for 11 euro. A bed on the top floor called the “Snorers Room”, could fate really be this cruel. According to a roommate, yes, there was a bloke with a loud snore living in there. Oh boy. I showered, and then as the cleaning ladies descended upon the room, realized there was no hope of getting an hour or twos sleep. It was 11.30 by the time I was back in the center, my bearings a little better. My mind was in a daze still with the lack of sleep, so I followed the TB's map and ended up going in the opposite direction again, but finally ended up at a restaurant called “Bistro D'lArte”. I soon found my hungry self dining on cream of pea soup, and from the blessings of carnivorous God's a massive spit roasted pork leg, followed by plum dumplings, all for only 11Euro. During my meal I noted another solitary figure enter the food house, TB in hand. She sat alone at the other end of the rester aunt, and I wonder why I never got up to say hello, can you believe the TB got it right about the food in this place?

I headed over to the tourist office and got a real city map, with important notes on it like what bus goes where and how much they cost and the fact you have to buy the bus ticket in an office and not on board (take note TB). I also took the time and 4 Lei to visit the local museum. Really not exactly the most exciting of places, but it gave me an idea about the 1400 established town. Also it hit me that there was also a bloke passing my the exhibits quickly, and upstairs that same bloke was talking to the same girl that was at the restaurant. Naturally enough he was putting across how great and cultured the place was... and just to add insult to injury I saw them team up at the rest of the towns little touristy offerings for the rest of the day. What's more, the little problem between my legs was back with vengeance and I was walking like an overused prostitute again.

I located a pharmacy and bought some skin cream for a friction burn on the shoulder, well hey it was hard enough to explain friction burn on shoulder without mentioning groin friction burns!

Gut instinct told me to check out the guest houses on offering. The first was for 50lei, and housed a team of Romanian Gypsy drunks. The second was more promising, a Hungarian pensioner couple offering a single room for 10Euro. My mind was made up, if there was snoring in the “Snorers Room” that disturbed me tonight, I would move into the Hungarian single room tomorrow. I had two strong Romanian black beers and a 5Euro pizza before returning to the hostel that night. Strangely it was very quite there, most were around the kitchen table having beers. I snuck past and headed to the bathroom to cover my sore parts with lashings of yogurt smelling Romanian Friction burn cream! Then it was to bed in the empty dorm room, ear plugs at the ready.

I fell asleep fast, a deep sleep, after so many days without good sleep it was easy. Then at about 3am I woke up, snoring filled the room. I changed over to stage two of snoring protection and donned my mp3 player to drown out the noise with more noise. At 4am the mp3 player had finished and the snoring continued, I tossed and turned. For some reason I was awake and not able to get back to sleep, my mind was made up, tomorrow I would move to the little pension. The snoring continued filling the airways. Finally after about 30 mins I shuffled over to my back, turned the mp3 player on to repeat, I passed out again.

In a sleepy haze I woke up, someone was at the bottom of my bed, the mp3 player still blaring away. The girl was pulling at my toe as I removed my earphones. In a Germanic accent she said “Your Snoring?!!” What the bloody hell?!!!!!!!! I am in the fucking snorers room, being kept awake by bloody snorers and in desperation for sleep, earplug and headphones in tow fell asleep on my back and was now being accused of all the snoring??!! I turned over in mild shock. The situation was two ironic to be angry.

By 10am the next day I had shuffled out of the Kismet hostel and made my way to the Hungarian pension. A single solitary room, in a converted bathroom. Still, tonight I should sleep well. I so wanted to be out of the European backpackers circuit now. The chances of meeting another actual traveler was very slim it seemed, all hostels seemed to cater for nowadays were 18-24 Americans and Australians on a drunken rampage of European cities. Expensive city tours, pub crawls, and hours of hair gel and make up in the bathroom, where were the explorers gone? The die hards not wanting to pay for anything other than a kebab? Same clothes for over a week? Wanting tor see things not often seen? I feared they had become extinct in Europe.

Showered, I began to bandage up the 2nd degree friction burns on my thighs, quite a site to see I would imagine. Legs spread in the air on the side of the bed, cream, bandages and surgical tape flowing everywhere. It was then I realized I had not locked the door to my room, but thankfully the old Hungarians were not that nosy! Brasov was a nice little “Touristy” Town, a big town center circled the town hall that now housed the not so interesting museum. Everything was painted yellow tones, and in peaking out of one corner of the square was the infamous 14 century black church, named for a color it got after a fire. Lush green mountains appeared on either side, one tarnished with the bright Hollywood style sign a the top “BRASOV” in big bold white capitals. It spoiled the landscape to me. As did the cable car ride cutting a straight line up through the pine forest on the same mountain. Still the view from the top should be good. It would be an easy day, time for healing and rest. I took the cable car up, my first such ride, and so exciting. But my lack of faith in Romanian engineering did make the thing that much better. I made my way along the path to the back of the giant sign, and looked down at the old fortified city, Carpathians in the distant background. I wrenched my left calf going up some steps, what was happening I was falling to bits. Photos taken it was time to head down and make my way over to the Black tower, a small structure on the opposite mountain, I had gone slowly today and it was already sunset time. Actually I missed the sunset, one needed to be there I figured by about 4.30 to take the golden photo of the little town. Not to worry I was to be here for quite a few days, so plenty of time.

I decided it was time to eat a traditional Romanian meal tonight, so I made my way to another TB recommended restaurant. There was a Romanian wedding anniversary just kicking off, so I sat in a far table and looked on as I ordered plenty. I dined on Romanian Beef soup followed by cabbage and beef rolls. The party goers began to dance in circles, and I cringed as the 80's music blared out. Strangely enough this all had the feeling of a Karaoke festival, complete with woman in corner singing Whitney Houston's “ I wanna dance with somebody”, I had a feeling I knew a silly person who would be very happy here. Nonetheless the food was seriously good, 4 course meal for only 8 Euro??!! I headed make to my lone room and fell asleep.

BRAN
I woke up too early, but stayed in bed listening to two full hours of people making use of the toilets next to my room. Either mama Hungarian was letting her toilet out to the neighborhood, or taken on quite a few guests. After a traditional breakfast at KFC, I headed off to Castle Bran, that infamous place. The bus out there was full, a mix of old locals and young tourists, all sweating in the heat. 40 minutes later and we were there. Well I thought we were there. Where was the giant castle standing on the jagged outcrop of rock that inspired movie makers with vampirific visuals? All I saw was a steep mountain, a church and as I turned the corner another steep mountain. Tourists littered the streets, hawkers selling everything from Dracula t shirts to little cheap Chinese wooden boxes. I looked at the church between the mountains and clicked, this must have been it?? I felt the heavy hand of depression push down on me. I walked around the area, yes the church was indeed castle Bran, identified my the rocky outcrop that stretched up its left flank.

With little to do I pushed past the tourists and street vendors, and paid the 12Lei entrance, refusing to acknowledge the fact I had a camera, meaning I would have had to pay an additional 20Lie. I walked the gently slope up to the tiny castle, and entered. Briefly I was amused at the slightly erotic sepia photographs of Queen Isabella that lined the walls. One of which were of the bedroom were a clocked figure could be seen. Ho hum. Then on the second floor I got caught up in a tourist bottle neck. Headache forming I made a desperate attempt to escape the true horror of this place and made my way outside. I circled the small castle from the outside again, still hoping for that classic view point for a photo. I followed not so well worn path and stumbled upon a circle of seats surrounding an old Stone cauldron, and at the read a coffin shaped stone seat. Something at least. I continued down the path, and heard the techno blasts of a local festival fill the air. I ended up in a building site where the caretaker was more interested in letting me out to the party than chasing me away. Heading back up I looked at stone mountain and wondered if a photo was possible from the top of it? The pine forested covering would surely not allow for that classic photograph and would my bandaged thighs make it to the top as well? Urged on my a feeling of defiance against all the fakery around me I began the ascent.

Tall pine trees covered the mountain, and a think undergrowth was keeping the tourists at bay. I turned around to see is the castle was viewable, no such luck. My head began to pounded with the increasing headache, and I wondered where it had all gone wrong. I continued up the mountain, the brambles getting thicker, and as I pushed aside some more a clearing appeared from nowhere. And there before me, framed in a blue sky and lush green field were the twisted beaks and jutting outcrops of the Carpathian mountains. The day was saved. The other side of the mountain was more of a giant slope and was indeed a very steep farmers field. Complete with rustic old barn, rickety farmstead, a horse and a little sheep with a bell around its neck. How much more picturesque could it get? I stayed up there for the best part of an hour.

I left Bran with the taste of a bad tourist hamburger in my mouth, and the mental mindset in figuring out what had gone wrong. We passed Rasnov on the ways back, this place looked more promising, but yet another giant Hollywood sign perched onto of the mountain proclaiming its identity. The next day I would piece it together. Another 5 Euro Pizza and I found myself in a Scottish pub having some Usus Beer. I went there to write up this diary I have started in peace, but of course the place filed with Saturday night revelers. I realized I actually was missing some company at this stage. But was starved of the right kind of company. Some young Americans at the bar broke into my silent corner, they were archeology students so the conversation did at least reach above the latest “Hanson” album. I made a mistake and excepted their invitation to another bar, techno hell. But it was here I noticed something. Even in the company of some of their own friend, they seemed bored. Night after night of clubs and beer were not doing it for them anymore, yet they did not have much of a choice. Peer pressure, rights of passage and a desperation to see a different night made them a bored as me. My bladder full I, used it as an excuse to leave. Rather ashamedly I relieved myself against the county hall, well there are no public toilets in Brasov! Heading back to the Hungarian homestead I fell asleep, bandages still attached, meaning they would be really painful to remove the next morning!!

RASNOV
The next morning I woke up with a heavy hangover. It seems as I get older the hangovers move from the head to the stomach. So naturally enough I headed to the Italian place for a Quatro Queso Pasta dish with a coke, I needed something to fill me before heading off to Rasnov.

The bus journey was the same as the day before, hot and jammed with tourists and locals. The quantity of people meant it was difficult to see outside for all those landmarks I had painstakingly taken note of the day before to tell me where the unmarked bus stop was. Thankfully the giant “RASNOV” eyesore prompted me to get out without missing the stop, albeit I was on the other side of town. However this gave me time to take a tour of the little neighbor of Brasov with the semi-original giant sign. The town was more like the very poor distant cousin to the other two tourist hotspots, the streets were devoid of tourists, unkempt and everything had a unfinished roughness to it. Still I was not complaining, there looming above me perched on a forbidding mountain stood the ruins of the Peasant Castle, giant “RASNOV” sign destroying any hope of a good photograph. Idiots.

I followed the road, and began the ascent up a pleasant non pedestrianized road, pine trees intermingled with natural wood framed housing, both old and new. The air was cool refreshing, and I began to feel a bit better. Finally I approached a large restaurant sitting right in the middle of the road it seemed, only one vague sign pointed me to the “Peasant Castle”. It seemed Sundays were when Romanian Security company's took their guard dogs out for walks as the place was covered in giant barking monstrosities. I took the rough gravel strewn pathway up into the mountain. Tall pine trees loomed over head darkening the pathway somewhat as my feet crunched in the gravel and the dogs barked and howled below. . . yes I was starting to get a good movie like feeling about the place already. One cold easily imagine a poor you Mr. Harker on a horse drawn carriage being taken to an unknown fate in the castle above.

I continues up the steep path, imagination helped be the lack of tourists. Then from around a corner I came and my eyes set upon the massive forbidding structure that was the Peasant Castle. Surely the writers had got it wrong, this place knocked Bran to its knees. Steep fortified walls surrounded the castle itself, a winding path led to a small side entrance that looked as if it were perched above a cliff face, the giant Carpathians lined the horizon. My camera was out like a shot.

I paid the 10Lei entrance fee, and even the 5Lei camera fee, this place was worth it all. Old wheel barrows, items of human torture lay perched against the street sides. A huge wall sized crucifix of Christ hung from a ruined house. I made my way around the neat but rough streets within the castle, little shops took residence in some of the old housing, nothing to garish, mainly paintings, crystal rock and yes one selling Dracula t-shirts. But few tourists, and those that were there were Romanian tourists. I spent over an hour, walking through the crumbling old ruins. A panoramic view from the top gave a spectacular 360 of the area. Carpathians to the west and south, town to the north, fields to the east. An old suspended prison cell hung out from a tower. If it were not for the fact the place was crumbling apart, it would have looked too staged, but here it was perfect. I made my way out to the court yard where there was an archery area set up, unfortunately it was closed. A large Stallion grazed alongside two donkeys in the main courtyard as a friendly caretaker looked on with a smile and a wave. What a blissful place, if only I had brought my book. I toured a second time, stopping off at the museum. A female skeleton was on display having been unearthed during renovations, and demonic sketches lined the walls. Even a painting and scripts from Vlad were on display. I left very happy and content with my day. Not even harassment from a town drunk could spoil me euphoria. The idiot very nearly got a shove from me as he came to aggressively close, but backed away after a shout. Squeezing on the overly packed bus I headed back to Brasov.

After a failed attempt to find a steakhouse..well I did actually but for the first time I had come across and expensive restaurant, so setting the menu down I headed off to the giant spit roasted Pork Leg place for a well deserved feast. Over dinner I couldn't help but think of the Trio of little towns I had visited during my friction recover the past few days. I can only come to this conclusion. 10 or so years ago the council folk of Bran realized that they could cash in on the Dracula legend and so spun a yarn about Vlad visiting the tiny little castle on a rock between two big mountains. I personally would say Vlad might have stopped by to ask for directions to the giant forbidding all conquering castle at Rasnov. Unfortunately the town council of Rasnov have taken a leaf from Brasov's book and just erected a giant Hollywood style sign in front of there truly worthwhile and genuinely more likely castle of terror. The misspellings of all the tourist info leaflet told me at least they were trying, yet the tourist board were not quite with the game yet.

Time was ticking, my friction burns seemed to be doing well. I paid the old Hungarian lady for one more night. I needed Monday for email, diary writing and to search out my ticket options. Where to next? There was a town to the north that seemed pleasant, and a hostel offering free washing. Considering I was out of clean clothes, (the Hungarians offered, but the musty smell of their clean towel told me no), it seemed another small town visit would do. But deep in mind I was troubled about the visa options. Should I forgo Moldova and head straight to Visa land? Moldova held an interest, but not at the expense of more tourist nightmares. What's more over breakfast I finally added up the days and discovered I was out of time?!!! Only 7 days left, before the comfort zone was over....

I headed off to the train station to buy a ticket to Sighisoara, birthplace of Vlad. It was then taking that same route I had walked 5 days earlier I realized that I had indeed done quite the impressive journey that 6am day. Not only had I managed to follow a mapless way into the center, but had done so on 3 hours disturbed sleep in the last 48 hours, with little food and a 30kilo load. No wonder I had been so exhausted. Ticket bought I did a quite preamble around the station and took note of where the platform was.

I headed out to dinner that night for one last good meal when I saw a couple TB in hand and asked if they were looking for somewhere, a couple in their late 20's, so no party hostel for them. I took them to the Hungarian residence where they seemed quite happy. We exchanged some notes as they were coming from Sighisoara and I headed off to dinner.

My time was surely up in Brasov, I took a risk with the menu and ended up with 700grams worth of heavy slabs of Ewe cheese, cottage cheese and someother kind of white cheese. Now I like smelly cheese, but I recognised the engine oil come rancid cream smell of this Ewe cheese from the market, and I truely balked at it. Talk about foul. But I surcomed to having paid 5 euro for it, and ate as much as I could. My only consulaton was that I would most likely end up in another party / Snorers hostel tomorrow night so what better way to piss them off but with Ewe cheese farts?!!!

Back at the Hungarian Residence I noted that the person staying in the first, of three rooms had strangly left his door open. I opened my own door, and heard the bathroom one close. That explain it, he had run out for a quite pee. I started my prepacking, and after 30 mins the sound of rushing water from the bathroom grabbed my attention. I went to investigate only to discover that the toilet was leaking from the cistern into the bowl, I opend the cistern and twiddled a bit with the top pull gadgetry and temporarily stop the flow. It was then I heard the door of the first room open and shut again, ah ha, the culprit. I images of a young backpacker breaking the toilet just before I came back entered by head. A new conclusion. Later that night I heard the couple I'd brought to the residence come back, and rebroke the toilet, thankfully they managed to also put a temporal fx on it. Unfortunately the little idiot who most likely broke it in the first place flushed at 5am and made no effort to fix it again, hence I was awake since 5am.

26/9/07 Wednesday
Over anxious about departures I arrived at the Budapest Ketti Train station 1.5 hours before by scheduled departure at 17.45. With no seating available I had to make do with a standing room only view of the old style flickering and rotating timetable, right next to some local drunk Hungarians. It didn't help that I was staring at the arrivals sign rather than the departures (TB phrase book does not include the word arrival nor departure). The loud and annoying Americans the night before had kept me awake for nearly all of the night with extreme drunkenness and snoring. Even so my sleep deprived eyes recognized the “Bucharest 17.45 Gate 5” announcement flickering into place at the bottom of the giant display.

Primary Backpack Lunge 1 engaged I headed off to find Gate 5, my carriage number war 425 and my seat was 66. Finding Gate 5 was easy, the hard part was finding carriage 425 when none of the carriages have numbers other than for seats, of which there was a seat 66 in just about all of them! Help seemed to be close at hand as I noticed two Hungarian attendants paying much attention to a sole lady up ahead, maybe one of them could give up on the lady and spare me 5 seconds worth of a grunt and a finger pointing to the correct carriage. I approached ticket in hand, the older one took my ticket and shrugged. Then examining the ticket started to shake his head. I did my usual “English, Spanish or Hausa?” options, the jolly looking old man replied in French with a smile, then started to shake his head at the ticket while calling his friend over. Subconsciously I was not enjoying all this negativity towards my ticket. The younger one took another opportunity at the raven haired lady as she boarded the train, “English?”. She turned and nodded. I was in luck, the first Romanian I meet and she takes the ticket to tell me I was in the same carriage as her. The lady in question will forever remain nameless, I guess names are not always important for a brief 14 hour train journey. She sported a giant red suitcase, and refused to place it up high in the carriage even with my offerings. So instead it sat like a giant obelisk in front of seat 66. So Seated in seat 65 I showed “Raven Redcase” my laminated map of my journey as an icebreaker, and as always it worked. She worked as a cabin stewardess on river boats, and was happily showing me all the places she had worked in Europe, including last night by parliament on the Danube. I figured it must have been here boat that kept running into my night photographic attempts.

The train slowly eked out to the old Budapest station, and finally I was about to fulfill a boyhood fantasy of taking a train trip through the Carpathian mountains under a full moon. The chubby little old train attendant appeared again, this time laughing and smiling while talking in Romanian to Raven Redcase. The conversation seemed to entail lots of pointing at me, and a request for my ticket to be inspected again. His skinny younger friend appeared at the door, and also but in a phrase or two about my “Billet”.
Finally the truth emerged when Raven Redcase translated, “He would like if you could give him you ticket when you get to Bran?”
Hmm, I all clicked into place even as Raven Redcase explained, it was a Romanian tourist board offer that all tickets into Romania could have free returns. The old fella would of course love to sell the return ticket half on. I agreed with a laugh, and entered in the condition that he woke me up when we got to Brasov. He laughed out loud and we shook on it. He later appeared again, only this time to let it be known there were cigarettes for sale and food for sale in another carriage. RavenRedcase explained that as a foreigner I was deemed to have money, so such things were expected. Somethings never change, I never understand how a scruffy backpacker can look to have money? Still the train trip was off to a good start, I had a six seater compartment with a pretty Romanian translator for conversation rather than a fat drunk man. Even the clouds outside could not dampen my enthusiasm for the trip.

One stop later and our private solitude was broken as the train began to take on passengers. Our compartment door few open with a bang, an attractive 30+ mother charged in bags first, 2 children later. The tanned trio paused briefly to look at there new home for the night. The mother greeted RavenRedcase in Romanian and I made the gentlemanly offer of lifting her cases up on the shelves, privately hoping the red monolith would also be moved. So such luck. I was really hoping for some distance between me and the children. Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but I know what happens when you put a pair of 5 year old and 8 year old male siblings into into a confined space for the night!!

They settled in well, no English but seemed really nice. At least that is what I kept telling myself in fear of a prediction I was making. Then it happened, the two ladies got up and asked if I would mind the kids for 10 minutes while they had a smoke....

The first 5 minutes was fine, I read, and they sat over a dinner of luminous orange colored crisps and kinder chocolate!! A disaster, the sugar rush kicked in and they immediately erupted into a fight. Romanian screams filled the compartment and the whole carriage I am sure. 5 seconds of silence then occurred, but was broken as easily by the little one making a break for the door. Romanian babysitter for 10 minutes and I had already lost one. The older kid reached out and grabbed his brother before he got very far, meanwhile I grabbed my TB phrase book and began saying “Nit Nit!”, for some undecipherable reason. 30 seconds of page flicking later, I still couldn't find the phrase for “sit down” or “shut the fuck up”. Screams filled the corridor again. When would it end, the Romanian ladies were gone over 15 minutes now.
The little one suddenly started to shout “Piscuse, Piscusser!”
I reasoned for a second, then started to randomly call things out from the phrasebook, “Hello”, “How old?”, “ Where's the Rester aunt?” all to no avail.
“Piscuse,” they both started to squeal.
What the hell??? “You want mama? You want Fish? What?”
“Picuse”, yelled the little one again, only this time he was holding onto his little crotch.
NO WAY!! It was then I lost all interest, all control was lost, I was not taking responsibility. The Older one then grabbed his brothers hand and led him down the train corridor to where I guessed the toilets were. I stood at the door of our compartment, hoping the worst would not happen and someone would not snatch one of the little buggers, albeit for a quieter night. But I figured there would be some strange Hungarian/Romanian law that blames all foreigners put in charge of baby sitting kids should anything go wrong. Still, my priority was not to leave the compartment, and the bags.
Sufficed to say the duo came back a few minutes later, this time clutching snickers bars, could the sugar rush get any worse??

Mama had been gone for over 30 minutes now, and I truly began to feel victimized. Downing a subway sandwich I sat down as the kids started another fist fight. Only this time it ended with the little one getting an almighty thump in the head from the older one, which resulted in him tearing out into corridor crying out for his mama. The train started to slow down. A look of panic hit the little one. Maybe he was thinking the same thing I was, a planned escape. More likely his mother was also having he same thought. The little brat tore off down the corridor followed by his older brother, that was it, they were gone. The train started to fill with passengers, and I was busy thinking up excuses to tell the Romanian Judge about how I lost two small boys entrusted into my care on the train.

Then in the distance I saw the two buggers, and mama was behind them, a look of wryness in her face as she saw me standing there before giving the two kids a slap across the head. As I sat down and awaiting their return a young frizzy haired girl came charging into the compartment, waving franticly out the window. I let a joke out about the compartment being filled with evil children in utter despair at the past 40 minutes and was taken back by the a fluent reply in English “Yes I can see that!”. The frizzy haired Romanian girl was full of chat, unlike the gruff Romanian gent who also tried to get into the compartment but was bamboozled out of the way my the returning terror boys. Finally there was no option but to remove the great red monolith of a suitcase to the top shelf. And yes I think she was transporting solid rock in that case.

Night came fast as we headed into a new timezone. Border guards examined passports without trauma. I took a photograph of the train corridor, a memoir of my full moon, into the Carpathians night, albeit with full cloud cover. We all started to nod off to sleep now. I had set my phone to wake me at 5.30am. Though looking up at my day pack, crushed between the red monolith and the baby bags, I figured I'd be going without breakfast in the morning as getting to it in our over crowed positions was a near impossible task.

I woke the usual amount of times during the night in vague hope of seeing the full moon appear from behind its clouded veil, nothing. Still I did not have a feeling of disappointment. I nodded back to sleep. Some time later waking blurry eyed again I looked out the window to see the massive Carpathians illuminated by a full moon radiating light through the clouds.