As in times gone by

No robbing gangs and Sinti wanted to get at us tonight. How could they, after George Clooney’s hedging. “Did you sleep well?” he asks us kindly. “Very good,” we reply full of energy. For breakfast there are delicious chips, fried eggs, fresh white bread, tomato salad and Turkish coffee. George introduces us to his wife. “That’s my Georgeta,” he says with a loving look and a cheerful laugh. “I’m delighted to meet you,” the friendly woman greets us. “My name is Vasile, by the way,” the innkeeper reveals his real name. “Do you know that you look like George Clooney?” I ask him. He laughs heartily again. “Thank you very much. Yes, I’ve been told that before,” he replies. We are eating our chips when I spot another red pannier on the street. “Cyclists are coming again,” I say. “Ha, ha, ha, good joke,” says Tanja, obviously amused, as we haven’t met any cyclists in Romania yet. “Well, look. I’m not fibbing.” “Ha, ha, ha,” I hear, but when the first one comes around the post, Tanja’s laughter gets stuck in her throat. The Dutch couple Inge and Cosmas welcome us happily. “We’ve already heard about you. Tonnis, who we met on the way, told us about you,” they report. We talk again and learn that the two of them also left Budapest three weeks ago and will be traveling home from Constanta in a few days. They report that the route to Tulcea has hardly any hills and is easy to cycle. Since their bikes only carry about 20 kilograms of luggage, we are happy to believe them. Sure, what do you need on a bike? Not much. You get everything on the way and if you sleep in accommodation you don’t need a tent. This is the ideal way to explore a country. We pay our respects to Inge and Cosmas and would love to chat with them for a while. But even they set off after a short break. They want to reach Constanta today.

At ten o’clock we say goodbye to Georgeta and Vasile. “Come and visit us again,” they say. “Who knows, it’s a small world,” we reply. “George Clooney will always have a place for you,” he laughs and waves after us. “We’ll tell the world how nice George Clooney is,” we shout and cycle off in an easterly direction. Headwinds and slight inclines pick up where they left off yesterday. They can’t do us much harm today because our mood is too good. Five and a half hours later, we reach the fishing village of Jurilovca on roads with hardly any traffic. There is even a tourist information office where Tanja asks if there is a place to stay overnight in this remote place. As so often, we are the only guests staying at the Hotel Albatros. (Birds seem to love them very much in Romania). The house is currently being restored and smells of paint. The three women who work here are so happy to see us that they eagerly carry all the equipment and bikes inside. We chat eagerly and I think I understand a word or two. “Some of them speak Russian. 80% of Jurilovca are of Russian descent, the young man in the tourist office told me,” Tanja explains. Since we have been attending the adult education center once a week for two years in preparation for Russia, we are apparently already benefiting from our limited knowledge.

After visiting what is said to be the largest Russian Orthodox church in Romania, we sit on the terrace of the Albatros and enjoy rural Romania. Although we’ve been here for a few weeks now, life on a Romanian village street still feels like a journey back in time. All the houses around us seem close to collapse. Cables hang in an almost indescribable tangle over the road. Some garbage is lying around. The wind blows dust through the alleyways like in the Wild West. Local music blares from a nearby bar. Men drink beer and are already drunk in the afternoon. Women push a small, welded steel, single-axle handcart along the battered track. The tires are completely different. How it looks depends on your wallet. The simplest ones have bare iron wheels. The better ones are made of hard rubber and the luxurious ones glide over the potholed surface in inflated tubular tires. Everything is actually transported. From gas cylinders to small children, simply everything that needs to be transported. Someone must be earning a lot of money from the production of these trolleys, because they are used all over the country. Women of all classes seem to use this transportation aid, from the finely dressed to the poorest peasant woman. But not only handcarts are in use, but mainly horse and donkey carts. There is a lot of traffic. There are also cars here, but they are rare. It rattles, clatters, squeaks and groans past us without interruption. Once again, we feel as if we are moviegoers watching a film from a bygone century in amazement. The carts that bump past us are like handcarts with a wide variety of equipment. Some of them are still equipped with steel-shod wooden wheels. The modern ones, on the other hand, have car tires. People use the street as a place of communication. Everyone knows everyone. There is waving, greeting, swearing and cursing. From time to time dogs attack the horses. Not all of them, but the ones they don’t seem to like. Dogs are just as much a part of the street scene as cyclists or pedestrians. As we watch the highly interesting goings-on, one of the few cars stops in front of the terrace with squealing brakes. A man gets out, slams the door into the rattling lock and heads straight for the men drinking beer at the next table. He pulls out and hits the one over the head. He complains and a battle of words begins. The fun mood has come to an end. In the meantime, one of the nice ladies serves us pizza. The only food the Albatros restaurant has to offer. It comes from the supermarket, is frozen and defrosted in the oven or microwave. Modest taste. We start with our meal. The hustle and bustle at the next table has thankfully calmed down. Both opponents drink beer and seem to understand each other again. As the sun sets, the medieval traffic slowly quietens down. Only occasionally does one of the donkey carts rumble past. Then the dog gangs take over and keep an eye out for rivals, for things they can bark at incessantly. A cat sneaks past. In the pub opposite, the music and the bawling get louder. We are now lying in bed and sweating at a room temperature of almost 30 degrees. A day in Romania comes to an end. Once again, it was an interesting and unusual day.

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