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Romania

My Bloody Romania: The Royal (Mud) Treatment

by Leif Pettersen on Sep 25, 2007

Dateline: A mud puddle the size of Delaware in Southern Bucovina

There’s a hardcore subset of people wandering around Southern Bucovina visiting all the monasteries by foot – backpacks piled high with camping gear, all-weather clothing, muesli and vampire bat spray. I’m not one of those people. I retired from carrying all my crap on my back in 1994 when a chronic back injury combined with a Dr. Seuss caliber over-stuffed backpack aged my spine about 50 years in four months.

I’m a wheelie bag guy now and proud of it. Some backpacker purists feel that wheelie bags are a cop out. These people are dough heads. Furthermore, at the end of the day of wheelie bagging I feel great and I smell divine. At the end of a day of backpacking, most people look like refugees in need of an industrial jet-wash with a mixture of bleach and tomato juice.

The only downside to wheelie bagging (well, some call it a ‘down side’, I call it ‘the best part’) is that you are limited to day trips, like the one I’m taking now: the ‘Prince Charles Walk’ from Putna Monastery to Sucevi?a Monastery.

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Prince Charles went through a Romania phase several years ago. He visited, he jeered plans for a ‘Dracula Land’ amusement park (rightly so) and he ambled the 20km between these two monasteries, an act that compelled people to (unofficially) rename the trail after him, dropping its former title ‘That Super Muddy Logging Road Where We Go to Get the Big Mushrooms’.

The original impetus behind me doing this walk was from Monika in Suceava who wanted to go through repainting the trail’s blue cross markings on the trees which had reportedly not been all that robust in the first place and were now starting to fade. Well, Monika is a busy woman and had to acquiesce to last minute paying work rather than scampering around in the woods with a can of paint. So it came to pass that I took the sadistically slow train from Suceava to Putna with three other eager hostel guests to reconnoiter the status of the trail markings while having a good long hike.

After shaking off the spirit sapping, anesthetizing effects of the two and a half hour train ride, during which we never broke the elusive 25KPH barrier, our band of four crossed the humble village of Putna, stretching our legs and stopping to ogle the monastery. Though Putna doesn’t have trippy, fear-of-God exterior frescos like its more popular counterparts in Bucovina, it still pulls in the (mostly Romanian) visitors by the bus load as it’s the final resting place of Ştefan cel Mare (Stephan the Great; 1433-1504), the closest thing to a super hero that Moldavia has ever had. During his reign as prince of Moldavia, he handily repulsed forces from Poland and Hungary, though his heroic resistance against the Ottoman Empire was what made him venerated throughout Europe. When he wasn’t building a battle record of 34 and two (and fathering over 20 illegitimate children like the jungle-f*cking stallion that he was), he erected 44 churches and monasteries, several of which are now UNESCO World Heritage sites. The name ‘Ştefan’ is landscaped into the hillside just south of the Putna, which, legend has it, was permanently seared into the vegetation after Ştefan let fly with the rip-roaringiest, firehosiest, write-your-name-in-the-snow beer pee the world has ever known.

Realizing that time was getting away from us (Monika would be picking us up at Suceviţa at 5pm), we had to scurry from the monastery without entering the museum or checking out Daniel the Hermit’s Cave in the hills 2km south of Putna. Having not seen any signs indicating the start of the trail while crossing Putna, we beseeched the monastery’s guard for directions and thank Buddha we did. Without his rudimentary, but endearing hand drawn map we’d have never found the first blue cross marking nearly two kilometers into the walk and we’d probably still be out there, rationing a couple chocolate bars and two Altoids while discreetly sizing up which one of us would make the best bear bait.

Walking briskly, but uncertainly, we found the first blue cross with only minor hesitation. From there, though the markings were indeed thin, there was little question of how to proceed. The first hour of the hike was on a well-trodden dirt/rock/mud road, passing far flung homes, occasionally stepping around small-scale logging operations and unintentionally scaring the living ca-ca out of every cow we passed (those bovine can really move when they want to – probably outrun a cheetah for the first 20 meters I bet).

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Just as we were wondering if the entire walk would continue along this pleasant, but tame road the trail unexpectedly veered left and plentiful blue crosses led us up a 50% grade hill that started sucky and proceeded to suck with a dash of mud until we hit the peak much later deep in the forest. We stopped to soak in the dead quiet surroundings. Not even the birds were singing. From here the trail started downhill on a (mostly) well-marked thin trail, winding through unspoiled forest. We occasionally skated down mud slicks with arms flailing and passed ‘rest and smoking’ stations. Not a single trail sign for the first two kilometers, but trail administrators found the energy to erect woodland smoking lounges? You gotta hand it to them, they know their demographic.

When the trail re-joined the logging road the mud worsened and so did our mellow of nature appreciation with the inevitable appearance of Romanian Garbage Cans (read: any flat surface by the side of the road). Though not nearly as bad as it was at the Bucegi Mountains, the sight of this carefree litter-athon nevertheless started the expletives rolling off my tongue.

More diminutive logging sites were passed and before long we were limping down the last 2km on a newly paved road that led right to the front door of Suceviţa. Like the first two kilometers, the last two kilometers were devoid of blue crosses and there was no signage around Suceviţa giving people the slightest impression which direction the walk began. For the record, when departing Putna, take the first right after exiting the monastery’s two gates, follow the somewhat clear ‘S’ curve around the edge of town (except for a few fleeting moments, you should be heading generally south), the road will cross a small stream and continues parallel to the stream for some time before you see the first blue cross on the side barrier of a small cement bridge. From Suceviţa, simply walk straight out of the monastery gate, cross the perpendicular road and continue down the new cement road for two kilometers (ignoring the confusing red stripe markings along the way that lead Buddha knows where). The road will eventually turn to dirt/mud and blue crosses should start appearing soon after.

What with me spending the better part of five months on my fanny, writing my hilarious little heart out, the 20km walk did not do my body any favors. My legs were killing me and my feet felt as if they’d been wailed on by an all star team of Romanian carpet whackers. Even my arms were a little stiff from the violent rowboat spasms I performed to keep from unwillingly sitting and luging down muddy hillsides on my ass, which would have been the height of sucktastically sucky, unless it happened to Prince Charles, in which case I would have wet my pants with delight.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, co-authored the current edition of Lonely Planet’s Romania and Moldova. Visit his personal blog, Killing Batteries, for more provoking of elitist backpackers and further speculation about what a freakin’ stud Stephan the Great was.

My Bloody Romania: One serving of Suceava – hold the syndrome

by Leif Pettersen on Sep 24, 2007

Dateline: Suceava, Romania

Suceava gets a bad rap, primarily from elitist dorks lacking an appreciation for the delicate art of Cement Feng Shui.

OK, there’s no exoticizing it, Suceava is largely a butt-fugly series of gray streets, buildings and plazas. The city was one of the many victims of Ceau??escu’s systemization initiative in the 1980s and short of bulldozing the entire city (again) and rebuilding to 18th century specifications, Suceava is never going to suffer an excess of aesthetic superlatives.

It would be so easy for Suceava to sit back and succumb to its mind-bending visual tedium, taking out its discontent on a super-sized Ceau??escu bazooka target in the main square, but they haven’t given up the fight. Well, they haven’t given up the feeble effort, at any rate. Being the closest thing to a major metropolitan area that Southern Bucovina has to offer, Suceava serves as the primary staging area for a number of regional day-trips with, by my estimation, the best tourism infrastructure in Romania outside of Transylvania. The civic weight of these minor accolades has seemingly instilled Suceava with a rising feistiness which is currently asserting itself in a variety of modest ways. Most recently, an agreeable landscaping project, consisting mainly of a sea of flowers, has unfolded on their main street (??tefan cel Mare) to beat back what was otherwise an interminable concrete buffet. However, at the moment the flowers are being overshadowed, literally, by the nationwide movement to replace all water mains with new EU-approved components. In their short-sighted glee to move the project forward, multiple streets have been simultaneously jack-hammered into dust creating, among other things, twisting debris storms every time the wind kicks up.

Despite the ancillary dust spittle epidemic, this temporary blow to the air quality is still a huge improvement on recent history. Just a decade ago, the city of over 110,000 had its very own, honest-to-Buddha syndrome (‘Suceava Syndrome’), a respiratory and nervous disorder caused by the byproducts of the toxic pulp and paper works on the edge of town (and in exactly what industrial application is ‘toxic pulp’ used anyway?). In the aftermath of the Ceauşescu regime, where silly things like mass sickness and needless human suffering were an afterthought at best, the realization belatedly crystallized that having the word ‘syndrome’ affixed to the city name was probably not helping P.R. or morale. Eventually the factory (still in operation) was fitted with filters that have greatly reduced pollution. Suceava still maintains a few air quality digital displays though, which usually (and gratifyingly) read ‘normal’.

As far as actual in-town sights, Suceava is admittedly a little weak, but a couple worthwhile items will nicely fill a half day of strolling while you wait for or recover from a marathon monastery tour.

Though virtually every two-donkey village in Romania has an ethnographic museum, Suceava’s has the added novelty of being housed in an atmospheric 16th-century guesthouse with much of the main floor decorated and equipped as if the place were still in business. The second floor is a veritable Peasant Saks Fifth Avenue, filled with racks of colorful folk costumes.

Also in town are St Dimitru’s Church (1535) and the Monastery of St John the New (1522), both of which are quite impressive, but should be seen before touring the Big Four monasteries or they may fall flat thrill-wise.

For the city’s principal mental and physical pulse-quickening, there’s the ruins of Suceava’s Citadel (1388). After a brisk walk through Şipote Park on the east side of town, including a slog up 241 steps, the panoramic view of the rectangular structure’s remains is arguably the highlight of the city’s offerings (and popular opinion is that the long-view greatly surpasses the crowded, unphotographical scene inside).

I’m sorry to report that the once decent food offerings in town have been dealt a nasty blow by new EU kitchen regulations that have caused a few of the better places to shut down. Still open is Latino, which serves passable Italian food and pizza in a subdued, but comparatively classy atmosphere (comparative to the other gruel-slinging options in the neighborhood). Something to avoid is the ‘Mexican’ food at Tacoloco, one of the many establishments in Romania to confuse ‘salsa’ with ketchup, which they provide in charitable, vast, perilous amounts. This is a palette-smashing love affair with ketchup the likes of which I have never seen. Best to stick with the pizza. Or just a beer. Or a second meal at Latino.

My Bloody Romania: The Painted Monasteries of Southern Bucovina

by Leif Pettersen on Sep 21, 2007

Dateline: Suceava, Romania

First, a quick geography lesson. Don’t go looking for ‘Southern Bucovina’ in the south on your map of Romania. It is, in fact, in the north. Like many parts of Europe, land was grabbed and dealt during WWI and WWII without regard for historical ethnic and cultural boundaries. I’m writing this offline, so I can’t research and confirm, but relying on my perennially air-tight knowledge of world history, the region of Bucovina was split in half when Southern Bucovina was handed to Romania and Northern Bucovina was packed up and trucked up to Sweden as a part of the Helsinki Convention of 1492, brokered by Abraham Lincoln, Attila the Hun and Buddha.

Most of the Painted Monasteries in this region were erected by Stephan the Great and his son Petru Rare?? in the 15th and 16th centuries and are collectively honored with UNESCO World Heritage status. The story goes that armies gathering and waiting to do battle with the Turks would hunker down inside these fortified monasteries. Since most of the peasant soldiers were illiterate and unable to enter the churches (and bored senseless after their Gameboys died), biblical stories were painted cartoon-style on the exteriors to educate and entertain. Many of the two millimeter thick frescos have miraculously survived despite centuries of direct exposure to harsh weather, neglect and the efforts of medieval vandals – keep an eye out for the “Dave was here” and “Clapton is God” engraved graffiti with dates in the 18th and 19th centuries.

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Tours of the Big Four monasteries (Humor, Voroneţ, Moldoviţa and Suceviţa) are the primary attraction in this region with most tours originating out of Suceava. I invited myself along on a monastery outing (my fourth visit to some of the monasteries) with the area’s Energizer Bunny of tour guides, Monika Zavoianu, owner and operator of High Class Hostel.

Our first stop was Humor (founded in 1530), whose primarily red exterior frescos, including a badly faded depiction of the 1453 siege of Constantinople, have not held up as well as the others, but its interior is splendid. Once you’ve gone blind squinting at the endless paintings of saints, you can squeeze up the three flights of steep, anorexic stairs to the striking photo op at the top of the brick and wood lookout tower – an endeavor that will test people who dread both small spaces and small lunches.

Next was Voroneţ Monastery, with exterior paintings dominated by a singular and vibrant shade of blue that has been coined as an internationally recognized color: ‘Voroneţ Blue’. The massive and detailed Last Judgment fresco here, covering the entire exterior western wall, is far and away the primary enticement and roundly hailed as Bucovina’s finest fresco. Equally, the profuse parking lot souvenir stands sell Bucovina’s finest Dracula ashtrays.

After a quick stop for lunch we pressed on to the predominantly yellow Moldoviţa Monastery (Monika’s favorite). While the painted church here is also in miraculously good condition, what’s equally striking is the otherworldly tranquil atmosphere within the fortifications. The beautifully tended grounds and stone buildings would undoubtedly make location scouts for a live-action remake of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” go to pieces.

Finally we careened over a winding mountain road with beautiful views (never mind the uninspired Communist sculpture sullying the peak) to the largest of the Bucovina monasteries, Suceviţa. The red-green dominated exterior fresco series is punctuated by the Virtuous Ladder covering most of the northern wall, which depicts the 30 steps from Hell to Paradise (I checked, no picture of Natalie Portman in Paradise, but maybe when Paradise II comes out…). There’s also a well here that has tasty water, in as much as water is tasty, that’s safe to drink.

I’m afraid space and Average Human Reading About Churches Fortitude has forced me to gloss over most of the arresting details of the Painted Monasteries – the tour, including lunch and a few other stopovers is a vigorous nine hours long. The splendid churches and fortifications notwithstanding, the sheer size and detail of the exterior frescos alone could fill years worth of observation and theological study. Monika has visited each of these monasteries hundreds of times and spent five years educating herself about the significance of the frescos and she still claims to see something new at each visit.

Me, I can’t tell you what color my last laptop was much less recall house-sized frescos in detail, which is why I have taken hundreds of pictures to jog my memory. Please excuse the absence of pictures from Suceviţa and Moldoviţa. They were lost in a tragic data transfer debacle.

My Bloody Romania: First stab at medical tourism

by Leif Pettersen on Sep 20, 2007

Being a homeless, shameless, godless freelance travel writer isn’t all glamour, Nike endorsement deals and Friday nights at the Viper Room canoodling with Natalie Portman. There are innumerable indignities associated with this lifestyle, including the startling, nay shocking, confession I am about to make: I have not seen a dentist in over four years.

Now rest assured that during this time I have been brushing and flossing with a ferocity only known to those who have no health insurance and little disposable income, who occasionally suffer the odd nightmare where his teeth crumble into shards while biting into an apple and Natalie Portman abruptly decides that she wants to see other people.

Even so, after four years, punctuated with occasional mysterious aches and an increased sensitivity to ice, I felt compelled to finally see a dentist. Romania may not be the first destination one thinks of when considering medical tourism (or even the 50th) and indeed, generally speaking, one shouldn’t. Pretty much all of the competent doctors leave here at the first opportunity for better pay and a lifestyle where a trip to the post office to pick up a package isn’t a half day ordeal. Even President B??sescu couldn’t find a doctor he trusted to repair a herniated disc last year, choosing to get the work done in Vienna. But dentists are another story. Since it’s not nearly as easy for them to find work abroad, even the Jedi Knights of Romanian dentistry are more or less stuck here (though EU membership may change all that).

So with a solid recommendation from friends, I brushed and flossed one last time and walk across town to my appointment.

If one chooses to fixate on aesthetics, they might become a tad nervous upon arrival at their Romanian dentist’s office. The ‘reception area’ did not have the soothing 50 gallon aquarium or three months of People magazine or even lights (there was a ceiling light, but it was turned off – natural light from the windows was sufficient as long as one wasn’t trying to read a book or scrutinize their bill). It was simply a tiny, bare storefront space, with two tired plants, four chairs and reading material that consisted of mail catalogues from the local superstore. There was no reception desk and, indeed, no receptionist. Just a frosted door from where the dentist herself occasionally emerged to call in the next patient.

The tiny room was filled with people, some walk-ins cupping their jaws and others with flimsy ‘appointments’ that were more wishful than abiding – I was invited in 45 minutes after my scheduled time. Inside, the office wasn’t much better. Again, no lights apart from the overhead lamp she used to illuminate my mouth. The walls were bare, the only decoration being two tiny, but encouraging pictures of the Resurrection of Jesus clipped to the x-ray light-board.

After truncated pleasantries (which she unexpectedly did in English), she went to work with the iron hook, gouging at my hard-to-reach places. After a quick spit, she fired up the tooth polisher for some nippy work ‘only where it was necessary’. Though her spoken chair-side-manner wasn’t winning any Florence Nightingale awards, she, like her busty American counterparts, was not shy about cradling my head, squished deep into her left breast. Better than any anesthetic.

Fourteen minutes was all she needed. Never cracking her deadpan disposition, she informed that I have no cavities [punches air] and that it would take about an hour for the underwire mark in my cheek to fade.

Total cost for cursory check-up and hasty teeth cleaning: RON30 (US$12.36). If one is less valiantly hygienic than I am, one might like to know that getting a tooth pulled will run an additional RON25 (US$10.30) and getting a tooth filled should be about the same. I wonder if dental care prices in America would be similar if they cut out the aquarium, People magazine, the team of receptionists and superfluous mood lighting?

So, my fellow budget travelers and destitute freelance writers, probably best to save your LASIK surgery for Thailand, but in the meantime you can get have a professional attend to minor-to-moderate dental issues in Romania with the same confidence you would at home. Like anywhere in the world, dentists’ offices (‘stomatologie‘) are on virtually every block, so just shop around until you see a door you like, or if possible, get a local to give you a referral. Be sure to crack a joke while you’re at it and take discreet note of their smile.

Leif Pettersen, originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota, co-authored the current edition of Lonely Planet’s Romania and Moldova. Visit his personal blog, Killing Batteries, for more amateur medical solutions and reminiscing about his innumerable relationships with movie stars, even if they all deny ever having known him, while deep down still longing for his red hot smokin’ body, aren’t you Natalie?

My Bloody Romania: The hitchhiker’s guide to Romania

by Leif Pettersen on Sep 19, 2007

One of the things that I love about Romania is that there’s still a sweet naivety in many aspects of life. The largest peasant society in Europe still thrives in the northern Maramure?? region (though EU membership seems destined to squash it), even the die-hardiest urban resident has a close relative in the countryside who routinely provides them with eggs, cream, milk, cheese, onions or potatoes and access to a lightning-fast, wide open file sharing network (where one can freely download software, games, music, TV series and movies, sometimes within hours after they hit the theaters in the US) still comes standard with all internet service. Is this country cute or what?

Among these facets is the enduring, widespread practice of worry-free hitchhiking. Virtually every Romanian has done it, including little old ladies and even children on the way to/from school in the next village. With dirt-cheap and surprisingly reliable trains, buses and maxitaxis crisscrossing the country, in truth, there’s usually little need to bother hitchhiking, but some truly arresting areas remain inaccessible by public transport and if you’d prefer not to expose yourself to the ass-tightening milieu that is driving in Romania, there may come a time during your visit which calls for polishing up your thumb.

Actually, posing Fonzie-style by the side of the road will do nothing except cause drivers to wonder why the crazy foreigner is pointing at the sky with their SMSing finger. If you want to hitch a ride in Romania, you need to do a pat-the-dog-like gesture, arm extended, about waist high. Furthermore, hitchhiking in these parts isn’t like traditional, goodwill hitchhiking. Drivers expect that you will spot them a few lei (Romania’s currency) for the ride, usually the equivalent of bus fare for the same distance. Other times, particularly in the deep rural areas where you’re more likely to get a ride on the back of a horse cart, proffering a few cigarettes is vastly more appreciated. If you, the wealthy foreigner, are the driver, you may only get a nice thank you (and maybe have your car blessed), as it’s assumed that anyone who can afford to travel for fun must be stinking rich and therefore doesn’t need a few piddly lei.

I’ve mostly had good experiences picking up hitchhikers in Romania, with a few notable exceptions. Apart from breaking up the interminable monotony of long, slow drives, taking on passengers affords all kinds of wacky opportunities for getting a singular Romania experience, like rigorous training on all the curse words that Romanian drivers use on each other. And let me tell you, when a foreigner cuts loose with those words, Romanians can’t believe their ears (followed closely by them getting super pissed off).

My one and only truly scary experience with picking up hitchhikers was the time that one almost leaped from my moving car. But first a bit of back-story…

There’s a regrettable past in much of the former Eastern Bloc with girls being kidnapped and sold into sex slavery. Not long ago, northeast Romania was one of the hottest zones, as such TV and radio ads warning girls about this possibility still air today. Typically, the kidnappers are foreign men that lure the girls into leaving home with the promise of a lucrative job abroad, before shoving them on a flight to Amsterdam or a bus to Tiraspol. These ads have opted to err on the side of caution and paint a picture that no male foreigners are to be trusted under any circumstances (which probably explains why Italian guys stick to the south and Black Sea coast when they roll into Romania looking to hook up).

I can attest that these ads are quite effective. Women were wary of me the entire time I lived in Iaşi. The girls that served me pizza five days a week never warmed to me even after months and months of seeing my face. Whenever I tried to push the conversation beyond “how are you?”, they would noticeably stiffen and excuse themselves. Seeing as how my breath is delicious, I was assured by friends that this behavior was a result of the ongoing ad campaign.

So back to the Romania/Moldova border, which, incidentally, was often the first leg of many ill-fated girls’ unspeakable journeys. I’d just cleared Romanian immigration (guards still laughing and pointing at the stupid American that bought a Dacia 1310) when I was flagged down by two college girls. They jumped in, said they were heading for Iaşi, and off we went. A few moments into our casual conversation they realized I was a foreigner. They looked at each other in a panic and my ass tightened to walnut-crushing tautness as one girl made to open the door and presumably jump out of the moving car. Fortunately for everyone, getting the doors open on that effing car was no easy task and with an extra few seconds to consider the situation she thought better of her flight impulse. Not making the connection between their behavior and the probable cause – a friend patiently explained the situation to me later – I cautiously asked what the problem was, but the two had settled into a state of quiet terror, refusing to look at or speak to me as we drove the mercifully quick 15 minutes into town.

Once at the center, I dropped them off at the first piaţa before anyone could hatch a new suicidal extraction strategy. They quickly climbed out of the car, closed the door and, once safe, reached in through the window to hand me a few lei.