Neil, or is it Neil??

I need to be sure that I have a place to stay tomorrow. I called Neil but there was no answer. He is probably out and about and doesn't hear the phone.

Since I have been in Romania I have learned a new technology – text-messaging. Every few weeks I get a prompt on my cell phone that I have one hundred new text messages to use. I never knew how to use this before but Romanian phones don't have voicemail and so this works as an alternative.

I send a text message to Neil that I will be arriving at 6:30 in the morning on the train and ask whether he will be home. He texts back that no, he will be heading to Craiova at 6 but that it will not be a problem. I text that I had planned to take him up on the couch offer. He returns, "No problem, I will leave the door open."

I ask him who or where Criova is and he returns that it is the "land of happy" and that he will return on Friday or Saturday. This is odd as just yesterday he was going to be here but plans change and I have a place to stay so it will work.

The train seems to be out of the mountains and has picked up speed. It is late by now and so I get some sleep on the train. In the morning, I get out the folder with all the information about the conference and the people I will be seeing. I dig through it several times but find that the printed copy of Neil's email with his address is in the bottom of my zip-locked suitcase. I decide to send one last text message. It will certainly be easier for me to show the phone to a taxi driver than to try to explain where I want to go. I ask Neil what his address is so that I can get there. He sends back. "twenty nine paris street." I text back, "Thanks," and let it go.

Soon we are pulling into the Timisoara Nord station and I am getting myself and my suitcase off the train and heading out to the buses and taxis. It is still dark out and so I decide to take a taxi to his apartment which is near Piata Victorie. I show the address to one of the taxi drivers who is not sure where it is. He consults with another driver and they figure it out. He will take me there for ten lei. A great deal! He puts my suitcase in the front seat and I get in the back seat. It is not far and soon we are parked in front of 19 Paris strada. The driver is pointing to it and shaking his head. It takes a minute before I realize that this is the last address on the street and there is no twenty-nine.
I make a quick decision to go to Piata Victoria and figure it out from there and so I ask him to take me back to the piata to a coffee shop. I remember reading that Neil is right off the Piata. Across the Piata is a McDonald's and so that is where I head. This is the first McDonald's I have set foot in since I left home. I have a cup of hot tea and an orange muffin while I consult the map. I find Paris strada only two blocks away and decide that I can walk there.

It is nearly 7:30 now and the sun is just peeking into the Piata. Maybe it is late enough to call. As Neil has left for Criaova, I call Meghan. She is actually awake and wonders where I am. I explain that I am lost and that I am at the McDonald's in Piata Victorie. After a short discussion, she decides to come down and have a cup of tea with me and then we will plan the day. I wait for a short while and there she is coming through the door.

I explain that I didn't call Neil because he is out of town. She looks at me as if I am nuts. "He is at home sleeping," she says.

I say, "No, he is on his way to Craiova until Friday or Saturday."

"He is sleeping. We were out late with two other Fulbrighters and he is sleeping."

It takes a few minutes to figure it all out. Apparently, the Neil I have been texting all night and this morning is not the Neil I know. Somewhere in Timisoara, an apartment is open until the Neil I do not know returns on Saturday. Now I am wondering who this is that I have been texting. How nice that this person is willing to share his apartment with a stranger who starts a text conversation with him out of the blue. Or is this really some crazy person? Who is it I have been conversing with? And how coincidental that the address he chose (which does not exist) should be only a block from where I am really heading anyway.

We are all settled back in their building when my phone jingles. It is another text message. "Returning from happy land tonight." I thought whoever it was had been having a great joke at my expense, but apparently there is more. I am curious. Ring. Ring. Another text message. "Be around at 8 to let me in or leave the door ajar." Who is this? Who could be less than a block away? I know no one in Timisoara except Neil and Meghan and they are both sitting right here.

My curiosity won out. "Meet you at Kimodos at 830," I text back.

"Where is that?" Whoever this is speaks English quite well. There are not that many Americans here.

"Piata Unirii Come have a beer."

No response. Once again I figure that whoever this is has had enough. It is a glorious day in Timisoara. We have wandered here and there and are putting together dinner plans when I am alerted to another text message. "I have my laptop with me Can you leave the door open." Who is this? He certainly is persistent. I have no idea who this is but I am beginning to feel guilty about his door being wide open all day. I actually did try to go to his apartment but couldn't find it. I do hope nothing has been stolen while he has been gone.

Ring. Ring. Yet another text message. "My train gets in at eight thirty – whats the story with the door? And this is David, no?" So whoever this is has thought he knew me all along, just as I had.

I text back, "Not David, are you Neil?"

"No, Bruce." As I am reading the message and putting two and two together, my phone rings and I answer it. It turns out that for two days I have been texting another Fulbrighter who lives in Bucharest on the same street as Neil. There is the same Piata in Bucharest. We talk for a few minutes and I apologize for not realizing who he was. We hang up as I am in a noisy, crowded restaurant and he is on a noisy train and neither one of us can hear very well. What a bizarre coincidence!

The Train to Timisoara

This time I have arrived at the station on my own. It was raining and so I took a taxi here. I was going to take the maxitaxi and walk down to the station but it is entirely too sloppy. It has been raining for days. There is water everywhere. I am wearing my favorite jeans and Birks so I am ready to get on the train without a hitch. Of course, what I did not think about is that the weight of all the handouts has made my carry-on horrendously heavy. Someday I will learn to travel light, but probably not in this lifetime. When the train arrives, you have about two minutes to get aboard. That would be fine if I knew where to be. There are four tracks in Gura Humorului. Amazing for such a tiny place! I ask at the ticket window where to stand. I go to where I understood I should be but several people tell me to go to the other end of the track. I have a first class ticket this time, finally. I am determined to enjoy this trip. I am in wagon number seven. You would think that was the seventh car but it is the third. I hear the train before I see it. I take this picture in a hurry as I have to gather my things and get ready. Soon it rounds the bend and screeches to a stop. I have to race down four train cars to get to the one I have a ticket for. You cannot get on the wrong car and move through the train for some reason and so it is necessary to be in the right place when it arrives. I get to the car and have to wait for three other people to get on as they were there first. Then I try to hoist my bag into the train. Not happening.

We have been traveling downhill for over an hour now. It is dark so there is no way to tell what it might look like out there. I hear the steel wheels screech against the tracks as they wind down the side of the mountain. It is peculiar to feel the train lean to the left and ten to the right without being able to see where it is we are going. I am looking forward to the return trip as it will be daylight. Although it will be uphill rather than down, it will be interesting to see the terrain we are traveling through. We slow down every few minutes. I think the brakes have been engaged most of the time in the hour and a half since we began this descent. The lights of the villages veer into sight and then fly away as we change direction.

The brakes make a grating sound that I can feel in my feet. It is a wonder that they are able to maintain any sort of braking after this long. I am beginning to smell an odd smell though. I do hope it is not the brakes burning themselves out.

It has been raining for a few days. We pass over a river that we would call a stream, I think. This evening yellow, muddy water is rushing over the rocks under the bridge. I guess it really is a river on occasion. The graying dusk casts a blue shadow over everything. It is almost as if we are riding into a fairy world. A fine mist has been hanging in the air since morning. The mountains are in the clouds. The day has had a fairy tale feel to it all day and now it is continuing into the evening.

It is well into dusk and almost pitch black outside. We pass villages bathed in an eerie light from the street lights. Everything seems to close by eight o'clock. Only the bars and clubs stay open. Even they are quiet tonight. Maybe it is the rain. It is a weeknight, although that does not seem to stop the kids from staying out late.

The windows in these old trains are interesting. Some of them open and some of them don't. The ones that don't are always in the compartments that are crowded. Tonight there are two windows that will not close. The one in the corridor is stuck open about an inch. Not bad in the summer, but it was 37 degrees when I left Gura Humorului and that is in the valley. I can only imagine what the temperature is here in the mountains and then add the speed of the train… The window in this compartment doesn't quite close. It appears to be closed but the fellow who is sitting next to it has been trying to close it for about fifteen minutes. He keeps opening it and slamming it. Then he tries jamming it into place with the palm of his hands. They must hurt by now. He took a handkerchief out to use as a cushion but it wasn't worth much. Finally, the conductor came by and together after a short discussion, the conductor opened his official leather pouch and extracted a pad of very thin paper. He tore off a sheet and wadded it into the gap. He and the fellow spend ten minutes stuffing paper into the gaps down one side of the window and then he disappears to make his rounds of the train. He walks from one end to the other of the train. It is much nicer now. I have taken off my jacket and quite comfortable in a sweater. Later the conductor comes back and they add more papers to the window. Now it is getting quite hot in here. Unfortunately, the corridor is freezing by now, so it is either roast or freeze. I am opting for roasting. There doesn't seem to be a happy medium.
We are hurtling down the mountain now. I can feel the brakes engaging as we come into a village, the few lights that are still on whiz by us. We round another bend in the rails. It is impossible not to lean with the train as it winds through the curves.

Tunnels are very strange at night. They are not well lit as they are in the States. Here there are sporadic yellow lights that emit just enough light to add an eerie glow to the carved out walls of the tunnel. It is a long tunnel, this one. The train races through the tunnel. The walls are only inches away. If I stuck my hand out of the train, I could touch them easily.

It feels as if the train is getting away from the engineer as we careen in to the station. We come to a screeching stop. It is most interesting to ride at night in the mountains. You cannot see what is coming or where we have been.

They say that this is the dirtiest and awfulest train in Romania, although it has the best sights. They are right about the conditions. Te bathrooms smelled awful when I got on this train.

I can feel myself being pushed into my seat by gravity as we continue down. It is now three hours since we began this descent. We are winding to the left and down. A train passes us every once in a while. It is easy to be lulled into thinking it is perfectly safe. We are stopping again although I don't see a station. I am leaning nearly into the seat to my right. We must be hanging onto the side of the mountain by a thread. It seems as if I am at about a 75 degrees sitting up instead of 90. An odd feeling. We are slowing almost to a stop but I cannot see why. I feel the gravity again. It is a good thin g we are going slow. I am being pushed back into my seat. It must be quite a grade to feel it so much.

It is only 10:30 and we don't arrive until after 6 in the morning. I wonder what the rest of the ride has to offer. We seem to be on an even keel now – we must be out of the mountains and traveling through Transilvania. And it is the week before Halloween….

Dimitrie Gavrilean Exposition

This evening is an exposition at the museum for Dimitrie Gavrilean. He is an artist from Gura Humorului. He currently lives in Iasi where he is a master artist and professor at the University. The opening event is at 5 but I do not want to be too early. Romanians are the ones who coined the phrase "fashionably late." I am going to have to hitch a ride into town as the maxitaxis have stopped running for the day. I have never hitched a ride in my life and am not really sure how to do this. I am wearing a wool suit with a silk scarf and heels. Somehow it is not what I imagine to the typical hitchhiker apparel to be. Hitchhiking is standard procedure in Romania and is safe. You pay the driver what the maxitaxi would earn for the same trip. It seems like a good idea until I am out here in the rain in my wool suit and heels waiting. Supposedly, you stand at the bus station and anyone in a car with an extra seat will stop to take you into town. I wait for twenty minutes for a ride. I start by peering intently into the first few cars that pass. That does not work. Then I try lifting my hand in their direction as they pass. Then I try waving and pointing to town. I have seen all three maxitaxis head out of town but they have not returned and I have been here for over twenty minutes. This goes on for about twenty minutes during which time I am getting wetter and wetter. Finally, I decide this is not going to work and start walking. It can't be that far and I am determined not to hire another taxi today. They really are not that inexpensive. I head for town, turning to signal each vehicle that passes me. Nobody has any room or chooses to stop. It is impossible to blend in and so I continue to plod into town. I get to the bridge and no one has offered to take me to town. I walk a bit farther when I hear something larger coming up behind me. It is one of the maxitaxis! He picks me up mercifully. I ride the rest of the way.

I arrive in town and walk to the museum. It is 5:07 and already there is someone speaking. Of course, it is all in Romania so I have no idea what is being said, but there are several speakers and they all seem to have much to say. I stand listening attentively in the growing crowd and clap at all the appropriate times and it looks like I know what I am doing. Several of my students are here, as is the art teacher and Costel, the French teacher who invited me. As I do not understand very much of what I am seeing, I turn to crowd watching for entertainment. There are quite a few very well-dressed people at the opening. Several of my students notice me and translate bits of the story that is being told about one of the monasteries that Gavrilean has painted.

It seems that each of the pastorals is a depiction of a Romanian story. His new one is the story of the _________ Monastery. Each day the architect would build all day, accomplishing much and then go home to get some much-needed rest. Every morning he would return to the construction site only to find that much of what he had accomplished the previous day had been reduced to rubble. This went on for some time but he doggedly continued to build every day. Finally, the builder had a dream one evening that he must wall in the first woman to arrive at the monastery the following day. In the morning he went to the site of the monastery to prepare a space to wall in that woman. He waited all day for a woman to arrive but none came. Finally, it was getting on the dinnertime and he spied his pregnant wife coming down the lane with his meal. As she was the first woman to arrive, he put her in the wall of the monastery.

The painting has a haunting quality to it as if the artist's hand could feel the sadness of the architect and it painted that sadness into the painting. Gavrilean paints lovely medieval scenes of peasants in their daily tasks. They are chubby and have happy faces. The paintings have a medieval aura about them. The eerie thing about them is that I recognize these daily chores as those that are still being done today. Men still go out hunting for pheasant and bring them home for dinner. Hay and straw is still cut down with a scythe and pitch-forked onto a carute for the horse to bring home. Huge gardens are still tended by hand. There is an interesting custom that continues that involves a parade of goat-masked revelers going house to house to celebrate the New Year. My favorite is a huge painting of a wedding at the Voronet monastery. It is called Nanta la Voronet, or Wedding at Voronet. The paintings vibrate with life.

After the speaking is finished, everyone mills out into the lobby. I wasn't paying attention. By the time I returned to the lobby all that was left was half-empty wine glasses and crumbs on the cookie plate. I have managed to catch the artist posing with his family. His mother is wearing the authentic Romanian dress. I imagine that some of his paintings are from his own memories, while others are from a time he knows but many others have forgotten.

A Photography Exposition

Eighteen photographic artists are exhibiting their work at a juried show at the Voronet Monastery this morning. It sounds like a lovely way to spend a Saturday morning. Morning dawns on a grey sky. As it gets closer to the time to leave, it gets greyer and windier. Finally, huge drops of rain splatter against my bedroom window, rattling the panes. This is not good. I am dependant on the maxitaxi and a regular taxi to get me there which means standing in the elements until one comes along.

I decide I still want to go and so I make a cup of hot chocolate to warm my innards for the trip. After all, I have an umbrella and a rain jacket. How miserable can it be? I stand by the window watching for a break in the downpour. Is it slowing? I think so. I put on my sweater and jacket and head out to the bus stop. It is just drizzling now. I walk to to bus stop and wait. And wait. And wait. I am getting wet. I start to walk back when the maxitaxi arrives from town. He stops to let me on. I ride to the end of the village and then back to town. I get a taxi to the Monastery. It is still raining so I ask the taxi to return in an hour. I think that is plenty of time to stand in the rain.

I walk through the entrance to the grounds and put my camera away. I am in the presence of experts and artists. I don't want to look presumptuous because I do not have the talent I have come to see. They are still setting up and so I take another look inside the monastery. The painting is fresh and well-preserved, probably the best of all of them. I stroll around the building in the rain. I see one of the artists still hanging his pictures. He attaches the string to the back of the one and then winds it around a peg at the top until it hangs just so. He stands back to examine the effect and then at it, goes back to unwind the string and start again. He does this two more times until he gets it exactly right. Then he goes through the same process a few minutes later with the next picture. I continue around the monastery to the beginning. I move out of the rain onto the porch. I watch the water roll off the roof. It pours onto the sidewalk. The sidewalk extends out about ten feet from the monastery in an exact silhouette. What has appeared to be an artistic dip in the stonework turns out to be a catch basin for the rain as it falls from the roof. It is neatly carried away so that puddles do not form. How considerate.

It is nearly time for the opening to begin when I spy a fellow teacher with his family and a few students. He is wearing a nametag that say she is one of the organizers of this event. He speaks French and so we speak through my high school French, his little bit of English and a student who translates for both of us. It is wonderful that we can make this work. He invites me to see the exhibit. The photographers are wonderful. They are from Spain, Austria, Hungary, France, Latvia and Romania. It is a juried exhibition. I am so glad I was early. As we reach the end, I look towards the entrance and see people flocking in to see the exhibit.

It is nearly time for my taxi to reappear and I can't be late. I don't want my carriage to turn into a pumpkin so that I have to walk all the way back in the rain.

First Snow

It is October 24. It is snowing outside. Not just snowing, but actually sticking to the ground snowing. The snow is coming down in a torrent. I stepped outside to see the first snow. Not big, soft, white, fluffy flakes, but fast, tiny, cold blasts of ice. You can see the white flecks as they tumult to the ground. They sting my face when I look up at them. Rivulets of cold, wet snow are dribbling down the back of my neck.

The ground is wet and sloppy with the mud now and the street is slick with it. The horses clip-clop along in it, but the sound is muted. No one is about. Cars swoosh by and leave a trail on the pavement.

When I chose Romania as a place to spend a year, one of the criteria was weather. It is supposed to be warmer here than it is in Michigan, but that has not been the case so far. I packed two umbrellas for this trip and they are getting plenty of use. It rains and drizzles here, much more so than I expected.

As the morning turns to afternoon, the snow continues, leaving a white blanket over the mountains. It is really lovely, but so early.

The Inspectorate

Thursday was a big day for three members of the English Department. They had applied to the county for certification to move up a step. This means an increase in status and an increase in pay. Teachers must build a portfolio of lessons, be observed three times during the course of a year or two, and pass a written test. This past Thursday was the first of the three observations.

Observations are always nerve-wracking even when you know what you are doing. There is something about the idea that someone is coming to watch what you are doing to make sure that you are doing all the right things, that you make no mistakes, and that you keep everyone on track. Here the Inspectorate comes to inspect two classes in a single day. Because of scheduling issues, she would be here for one teacher from 11 to 12 and 12 to 1, then the second teacher from 1 to 2 and 2 to 3. The third teacher had to require her classes to return to school from 3 to 4 and 4 to 5. I can't imagine asking our students to return for an inspection after school had let out, and yet they did return and did behave for her.

The teachers who are being observed bring a feast for the inspectorate and the rest of the department. The entire department meets in the department room to support the three teachers for the entire day when they are not teaching. The camaraderie is grand. As the day winds down, the stories get more and more interesting as we all get to know each other a bit better. The inspector comes in after each hour with a wad of hand-written pages which she lays on the table. She discusses the process and how encumbered the system is. She is really a very nice lady who has somehow gained this position which she doesn't really seem to want. She is young and overworked. Mara talks about how cumbersome the system has become. She says that her experience at Alexandru cel Bun school has far outweighed her expectations. I am not sure what she thought she would find, but she is very pleased with what she has found.

The students from all six classes have brought beautiful bouquets of roses for her. The workroom is soon overflowing with flowers. She brings back armfuls after each class. Flowers are an inherent part of Europe. They are given as gifts for many occasions. The first day of school, visitors, because they are pretty…

Soon the bell rings and it is time for the next class. She waves the teacher whose turn it is to sit down and wait for the proper amount of time. It is customary for students to rise and say "Good Morning, Teacher," when their teacher arrives to teach. The teacher greets them and cues them to sit down. When it is their turn to answer, the student rises to answer the question. It is a terribly old-fashioned, quaint mode of teaching. I can just imagine what my students in America would say if I asked them to do this.

Finally, they go to the appointed class and those who are left behind, must transcribe the Inspector's notes into prose into another big book to be saved forever. There can be no mistakes. At one point the teacher writing skipped a page and it was a twenty minute discussion about what to do. Apparently, it would appear as is something had gone awry. It would be improper and could look bad for someone. Should they tear out the page? The pages are numbered and so it would be obvious that something had happened no matter what they did. Finally, it was determined that they would add an introductory page to the section. This hand transcription required two people, one to read and the other to write. It should be neat and in straight lines. It is unlined paper and so that is a trick. Imagine how much quicker this is for us with a laptop. We take notes, make it into sentences, edit it, and print. All done in about ten minutes max. Then everyone has to sign the document and the original notes must all be signed and sent back to Suceava with the Inspector.

This happens six times before they are finally through for the day. One last transcription and it is time to celebrate. The Director and Assistant Director appear and all the staff arrives and then the day is pronounced a success.

Hunting for Mushrooms

It rained most of yesterday and last night. Morning dawned on a perfect mushroom day, like I would know. But it is a beautiful autumn day to spend in the forest.

I thought mushrooming was a group activity. I had thought we would all head for the forest together, holding hands and skipping, in search of mushrooms. That is certainly an exaggeration, but I did not realize it was an Olympic sport. We got out of the car, locked it up tight, and headed for the path. I turned around for a second to get my camera when they bounded off up the mountain path, mushroom bags flying. I started off after them, but never did catch up.

I was left standing there going, "Uh…. OK, then." I followed after them but never did catch up. They know the forest, which direction is which, and where the mushrooms are. I, on the other hand, only know that it is wet, slippery and there are a lot of trees that all look very much alike. I tried to keep my bearings and my footing. It wasn't going well. I tried to pick my way through the slippery ferns, baby trees, and mosses that were growing everywhere, trying not to kill everything in my path. I do like to think I am somewhat of an environmentalist. Occasionally I did see one or the other of them, off in the distance, galumphing off in one direction or another after elusive mushrooms. Every once in a while, I see Daniela and she says, "Come this way. See this one, this yellow one – it is poisonous." Like I could see the one she is even talking because I am still fifty feet away. By the time I got where she was, she has flitted off in another direction. And I don't even like mushrooms!

At one point, Daniela said that it was marshy and that I should stay up above in the tree line. It was rough going, passing between the trees trunks, the baby trees, the fallen branches and stumps, the ferns, and, of course, the mushrooms. My feet are getting wet from the damp leaves that are everywhere. I slipped twice. I really do not see where the fun is in this. After being lost for some time, I felt the need to make a call of nature. I looked around and found a secluded spot. I was nestled into a fir tree when I heard a buzzing sound. I looked down and found that the spot I had chosen was only two feet from a bees' nest in the ground. I had bothered them enough that they were now rather rowdy. The buzzing got busier and louder as more and more bees streamed out of the hole. They were not happy with their new neighbor. I got out of there quickly, and I didn't look back to see if they were following.

It is not long before I am alone again in the forest. I am absolutely, completely, hopelessly lost in the forest. I stop for a moment and think about those bees. Bees make honey. Bears like honey. Bears. Five thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine bears. There are five thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine bears roaming the forests and mountains in Romania. And here I am, alone, in the mountains, in the forest, hunting for mushrooms with five thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine free roaming bears. There are a lot of people here doing the same thing but who is to say there is not a bear? And where might that bear be? I am sure there are must be a few here.

Enough of this mushrooming. Slipping and sliding up and down wet, muddy hills. I found my way down to a lovely babbling brook flowing through the forest. I found a flat, dry rock, and sat down to watch the water move through the rocks to where I am sitting. Suddenly, I remember a picture of a bear coming to the stream. I can see it swipe a trout out of the water to eat. Of course, there are no fish in this brook. The only thing edible here is me.

I can't see anything anywhere except trees. Trees, trees, and more trees. And bears. Five thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine bears. Probably hungry bears. Hungry bears getting ready to pack it in for the winter.

I think it is time for me to call it a day.

The Official ID Card, part two

Today I decided to take all the necessary papers for the infamous ID card to Suceava to run the gauntlet again. I didnt think to take a picture of it all until it was too late so I have decided to include some of the traffic issues we passed on teh way to and from Suceava. Note the cart passing the cart and the sheep in the road. Mu favorite one is this one - there is a season for horse and carts in the city!!

I have my insurance booklet from Fulbright because they didn't think a Blue Cross card would do anything, even though I know they are better than whatever the Romanian system offers and I did my homework. I know exactly what to do in case I need to use it. For the record, it is good in Europe. I have a lease made out by the notary with a huge gold seal on it. I have my actual passport. I have an official, authorized, signed, sealed and embossed certificate that I am a non-paid teacher at Grupa Scolar Alexandru cel Bun Skoala in Gura Humorului. I have a notice from Fulbright and the US Department of State that I really am posted here for the academic year. I have the 3 lei tax receipt I had to get. I have a description of what I am doing here and what taxes I have to and do not have to pay from Fulbright. I have the 1 leu tax stamp that I have to have from the post office.

I have a huge four-page health report that describes my perfect health in great detail which I take with me. It has been approved by the US State Department and has the appropriate signatures and accompanying documents. I take it with me the following day at school to take to the school doctor. I have heard about this part of the process from a teacher who was on the same program last year in Sibui. She said that shortly after school began, she had to be examined by the school doctor before they would allow her to work. The health documents were necessary for her. I know there is a doctor here at school because a student asked to go to the doctor once. The office is in yet another building. I enter a dark, unlit hallway with used furniture piled up all along one side. There is hardly room to pass through. At the end of the corridor is a tiny room which is the doctor's office. It is full of stacks of paperwork and boxes. There is a small desk with more papers and several coffee cups. Two women in white lab coats occupy the office. When I arrive, they are all flustered asking if I would like a cup of coffee. I decline and thrust my paperwork at them, asking if they can give me a bona fide certificate of health. The younger of the two waves away my papers and finds a tiny pad of newsprint forms. There is more information on a hall pass. She fills in my name and the date and then signs it. She must rummage in the desk for the official seal of the school which she then affixes to the form and hands it to me.

find the nurses who give me a clean bill of health. They seem to know that I teach English and am from America. Everyone seems to know that. I guess the fact that I cannot speak Romanian as yet makes it a bit obvious. In five minutes, I have a tiny form all filled out, signed, and stamped with the official school stamp.

Mihai faxed the appropriate paperwork to the school so I imagine that it needs to be made official with the official school stamp and signatures. I will pick that up, too.

I collect all the Fulbright insurance paperwork along with my Blue Cross/Blue Shield card. I need to photocopy my passport and the page with my entry stamp on it. Interesting bit of trivia – no one here will photocopy anything. There are some shops that do it for an astronomical fee which is the only option.

A lease in Romania is a very complicated issue. It is not legal to make a lease between two parties unless a notary draws up the lease. There are more taxes and fees to be paid. The notary needs a copy of my passport so I bring back the the one that is too dark. Fortunately, he takes it after seeing the actual passport. I do not sign the lease. It makes me wonder what else I might be liable for that I may not know about.

I will have to pay the one tax I am liable for, and then head back to Suceava for round two. Somehow I have a feeling there will be more.

I now have a photocopy of the front page and my last entry into Romania page of my passport. Nobody here photocopies anything for you. You have to do it yourself for a fee. The first copy is too dark. I have to pay for it and the next one that is the one I will use.

The 3 lei tax was the most frustrating part of the process. At first no one seemed to know where to take care of it, but finally, the consensus was that the tax authority in town was the proper place to go. I set out with my 3 lei to pay the tax. Keep in mind that 3 lei is a little more than a dollar. I walked from school to the tax authority building and up to the window on the first floor. I waited for the woman in front of me to finish her business. When it was my turn, I explained what I needed and was sent upstairs to another window. This is a relatively new building. It is very pretty and has a marble staircase. A brand-new marble staircase that is extremely slippery. At the top a uniformed gentleman who spoke only Romanian explained that I needed to go to the building with the clock tower which he pointed out from the window. I walked back to town and over to the building with the clock tower. It is the building that houses the police department. Cristina had brought me there to do this during the summer but they said it was too soon because I wasn't really there as yet. I went to the same office we had gone to then. The policeman at the desk tried to send me back to the tax authority but I told them I had already been there and they had sent me here. The five of them conferred, made phone calls, and then I went to the other end of the station with some other officers for more conferring. Finally, it was decided after another call to Suceava and a discussion with more policemen that I should indeed go back to the tax authority building. One of the officers accompanied me. He spoke decent English and so we talked a bit about places in Romanian that I should see before I leave next year. We arrived at the tax authority and the same gentleman who had originally sent me to the clock tower building had a discussion with the policeman in Romanian and they decided that I should go to the other side of the police station to City Hall and pay the 3 lei there. We walked back and went to the front of the building this time. Inside there was a lady who made a few phone calls, asked her colleagues and finally they determined that it was indeed the tax authority who should take the 3 lei tax. Back we trudged. Keep in mind that I had chosen today to wear an extremely high pair of shoes with tiny spiked heels. This time we talked about his upcoming nuptials and their life plans. It seems he will be moving to Cluj in a year as that is where his fiance lives and works. Upon arriving back at the tax authority, we went upstairs again and I was finally able to pay the tax. Of course, first I had to identify myself in triplicate. I thanked the policeman and headed for Suceava.

I did not anticipate that this was going to be easy, but it was worse this time than last time. I am completely at their mercy. First the woman in the office was busy taking someone's picture and brusquely asked us to wait outside. We did. Finally, a gentleman we had seen the last time popped his head into the office and then told us she wouldn't be long. Then a young man came by to see how he could help. He seemed to know what he was doing and took some of the paperwork and went into his office. For the next half hour, he and several others held a heated discussion. They went back and forth, from one office to another, carrying manuals and pointing to various paragraphs. Apparently, there are no laws that specifically mention Fulbright and so it becomes an issue. Most Americans who come here are Peace Corps volunteers, but they have never had a Fulbright here in Suceava. They are familiar with the Peace Corps situation as the volunteers actually get paid and it is discussed in their contracts and apparently in the law books also. The paperwork I have from Fulbright, of course, does not mention salary as there is none. This is the quandary. They simply do not understand the concept of being paid at home. The exchange program is completely beyond them.

I am not sure who won, but eventually he came out. He asked about my insurance information. Last time, the man nearly threw my Blue Cross card at me and so I left it at home. I had brought the Fulbright insurance packet that they wanted instead. It seems they are inordinately afraid that I will get deathly ill and have to use their health system and they want to be absolutely sure that I will be able to pay for it. I give him the Fulbright booklet and certificate again and again. He does not want this but he wants the Blue Cross card. I call Mihai again and they talk and then the officials go around and around about this for another twenty minutes. He comes back out and says they will accept what I have, BUT…

There doesn't seem to be a written list of what they require to issue this temporary identity card. I would be happy to collect and bring whatever they ask for, but each official seems to have a list of items that does not correspond to any other list. My only saving grace is that I continue to refer to the list I was given last time. That seems to hold some weight. Maybe it is the number of times you trot over here and wait in their very uncomfortable chairs. It is like being in a college dorm again. The furniture in this building has seen much better days. The stuffed chairs have lost their stuffing and so are very lumpy and the seat is almost on the floor. This puts me at a distinct disadvantage as it is a long way down, and it seems to be an even longer way up. The two tables in the waiting room are leftovers from somebody's living room. Any finish they ever had is long gone. All four pieces of furniture are jammed into the corner of the hallway between the offices. It is nearly impossible to pass by them even if no one is sitting in them.

Now they are having issues about how I will pay for my room and board. It seems impossible to them that I would not be getting paid by someone in Romania and therefore I will be living on the streets in no time. It seems they do not want anymore street people. I explain over and over that I am still being paid by my American school and that I have plenty of money. They are not satisfied. I tell them I will bring up my bank account and it will show a paycheck being deposited every two weeks. They are not interested. They want a contract that says I am not being paid in Romania and am being paid in the US. Of course, this is an impossibility as there is no such thing. Who would write a contract to say there is no money passing into my hands? Again I show them the paperwork from Fulbright that says my travel ad shipping expenses will be covered but nothing else. That is not enough. They are certain that I am getting paid somehow from Romania. This goes on for quite some time. I want to tell him that just one of my paychecks is more than he makes in a year but I don't want to insult him. I probably will have to go back to square one if I do that. I tell him several times that I was here two weeks ago and that I have brought everything I was asked to bring. I ask him what else I will need as I will be happy to mail it to him or bring more paperwork back, but that there is no contract that says no one in Romania is paying me.

Finally, he leaves again and brings the application out for me to fill in.

There is an area where I have to put my parents' full names, including my mother's maiden name. I imagine this is so they have someone to call if things go awry. I decide this is not the time to tell them that I take care of my mom and my dad has been gone for eight years. Neither one of them is going to come to my rescue. I also know that Romania is one of the highest identity theft and credit card scam countries in the world. No wonder when the government is asking for the very information that I am supposed to keep secret from just about everyone. They never asked for proof that my mother's maiden name was Jones. I will never say different.

Finally, I make it past this official and move into the camera lady's office. It starts all over again. It is all about the money. They simply cannot get their heads around the fact that I have money and won't be using their medical facilities or welfare system. After another round of discussions about where my money is coming from and that I will be able to eat just fine, I am finally allowed to have my picture taken for the official ID card. This is a temporary ID card. Can you imagine what they would want if it was permanent???

Finally, she gets the picture taken. Of course, it looks like a mug shot but I am not going to argue at this point. One of the other officials asked where my picture was when he perused the paperwork. I told him that no one had asked me to bring one and so I did not have one. Now they are taking an official picture. I am not going to ask.

There is no fee for this card which is surprising. I am sure they will think of that when I return in thirty days to pick it up.

At the hitchhiking corner they have added a fence. It is probably to discourage the practice but it is not working. There is no other way to get there from here except an 8pm train.

Train trip back to Gura Humorului

The price of trains is interesting. I have been back and forth from Bucuresti to Suceava several times now. I return from breakfast in the park to find Vergil ready to go. Today is the first time I have bought my own ticket because he has too many of us to shuttle back and forth. I managed to procure exactly what I was looking for this time. I receive two tickets – one from Bucuresti to Suceava and the other one from Suceava to Gura Humorului. The odd thing is that the price is the same as I have been paying for the shorter trip. I am not sure how this works, but I am not going to worry about it either. I have an hour and a half wait at the Suceava train station but that is infinitely better than toddling off to the hitching corner with my overnight bag and trying to fight to get my overnight bag and me into a car. I will save that experience for another day.

Apparently, I was sleeping when the conductor came along to punch my ticket. I was sitting up in the seat and so I am quite sure that my mouth was probably wide open. I tend to sleep like that if I am upright. That must have been really attractive. I just hope I wasn't snoring. It seems someone tapped me on the knee to wake me. I found my ticket and handed it over to be punched. OK, embarrassment number one for this trip.

Ploesti - We are stopped here for quite a while. Suddenly there are some inexplicable noises coming from underneath our car. It sounds like they are opening the cargo holds on an airplane to unload the luggage. I finally figured out that they are dropping off and adding cars to our train and it takes a bit of time to do that.

There are four tracks and we are on the one closest to the station. I am sitting by the window and so I see the train traffic as they pull in, pull out, and wait. A freight train pulls in on the far track. Interestingly, it stops. I wonder if they plan to unload it right here at the station. I really would not be surprised. It is a grain hopper, albeit a small one by our standards. Actually, it reminds me of the ones from the 50s that used to run through our town. It would take two of them to be even the length of those on our trains. It stood there for three or four minutes as if even the freight had to check in with the station master.

I have finally figured out how the trains work here. The cars have signs on the sides near the doors with an origin and destination on them. When you buy your ticket to ride the train, it has a wagon number which is the car number and a seat number. That system is computerized and now I see how it all goes together. Very efficient. I now understand why it matters which car you get on. It is not so much the seat as it is the car that matters. Most of this train is going to Boto San and two cars are going to Suceava and the two sets will part ways at some point during this trip.

Interesting mother and daughter car companions. Mother has just retired from being a Romanian language teacher. She is seriously considering moving to Italy to teach Romanian to children of Romanians who are working there. The daughter will complete her education in December to be a doctor. Her dream is to move to London to be a doctor. This is why they will both leave.

The first train I took was a really nice, clean train. Since then, every single one has been filthy. I am going to have to figure out what I am doing wrong.

Sunshine on the train. I have been on this train since 11 o'clock this morning. I have had the sun in my eyes for the entire day. I am hot because it is a beautiful day. I don't have a sundress with me because they told us to bring warm clothes for our trip, which I did. Most of us were complaining that we had only cold weather clothes for 70 degree days. Now again, I wish I had something that wasn't so warm to wear. I have a rain clothes, snow clothes, and two sweaters I never took out of the suitcase. I have a hat in case it snowed on us and gloves to keep my hands warm. We took the Olt River valley route because it was too treacherous to take the Transfaguras Highway. It was never, ever, ever even close to that kind of weather.

I am sitting on the east side of the train. The sun is only just getting out of my eyes at 2:30 in the afternoon. About the time I get off this train it will be back in my eyes as t sets from the other side of the train.

We have arrived at a roundhouse and so we must be in a larger town. There is a town that I heard about this weekend that has a tiny Old Town. It seems that buses continue to drive into it even though there is nowhere to turn around. They have a very difficult time backing out and huge traffic jams are caused by the whole situation. The town fathers had a light bulb moment and built a roundhouse type contraption for the buses. Now they can drive right into the center of town, drop off the lazy tourists such as myself, gets turned around and head back out, without causing any undue hardship on any one.

Viresti – Another station where we stop to add or drop cars. It takes time. We get a rocky start, go about ten feet and stop. I can hear the train trying to go, but nothing is happening. Now the station master and his partners are headed to the train. They go under a car a few cars back. One of them holds his little red flag high. It seems like something is wrong this time. They have been under there for some time. A few of the passengers get off to smoke cigarettes. They loiter near the train, watching the station master for signs that the train will go forward. Several passengers make a dash for the station. Two of them are back very soon with their purchases. The last ones take their time, but they suddenly start running back. I guess the station master has called them. I hear the engine revving up again. There goes the whistle and we are off again.

I did have an interesting proposition on this train. There had been five people in our compartment, but they left one by one. Finally, there was only the old man across from me who was rather inebriated. He had a bottle of orange soda but I suspect it wasn't soda. After the last lady left him alone in the compartment with me, he started babbling about a bride. Finally, I realized that he wanted me to go with him to his "beautiful house" and be his bride. I think not!

Rasnov

Fortified cities were once very necessary to maintain a livelihood. As we leave Bran Castle behind us we see a white dot at the top of a neighboring mountain. It looks like a snow-capped mountain, but as we get nearer and nearer, it turns out to be the fortified city of Rasnov. It was a thriving city in medieval times. It continues to be a farming community, although most of the residents now live at the bottom of the hill in the new city.

The trip back to Bucuresti is relatively quiet if you keep your eyes closed. We have to descend from the mountains now. The bus is huge. The turns are tiny. Remember that I am sitting in the front seat. I managed to get this one from the very beginning of the one of the hairpin turns as the trees are flying by. In this next image, note that we are passing on a curve. The guidebooks all say that driving in Romania is dangerous because of the road conditions and the other drivers. I am inclined to agree with them. I have no intention of ever even considering driving in this country.

Remember the Orient Express - the exotic train that Agatha Christie writes about in Murder on the Orient Express. It actually does exist. It stops twice in Romania – here at the Peles Castle, the summer home of the Romanian royalty and also in Bucaresti. There are two stations here. One is very nice and is only used by the Orient Express. Across the street is a private entrance to the castle. Arriving guests need only cross the road and walk up the path. I imagine there were probably horse-drawn carriages as it is quite an uphill hike. It is over six thousand pounds to ride this ultra-luxurious train. Maybe someday...

This is also home to the biggest ski resort in Romania. This is a busy town today. Imagine what it is like in ski season. This town is very German in appearance. The houses are all connected and the fences are all high. This is for fortification. If an invading army came through town, they would not be able to breach the stone fronts of the houses and so the residents were relatively safe. The fences accomplished the same thing. Because of their height, it was impossible to see beyond them and the invaders usually passed them by in case there were armed men behind them. Currently, the town is a very busy tourist center.

As we continue down the mountain, the next mountain looms into view. It is starting to get dark and the clouds are rolling in. At the very top is a huge cross. No one seems to know why but there must be a story there.

Not far from here is a cable car that goes to the top of the mountain in winter to ski and in summer to enjoy the alpine meadows. This is certainly a fairy tale area.

Over a few mountains we come to the biggest bungee jump in Europe. The jump mechanism stretches between these two mountains. They do not bother with helmets. I suspect there would be no real reason to if you fell from that height. The white stuff is snow so imagine how high this must be.

We are only two hours from Bucuresti but they are worlds apart. Soon we are back in the pushing, shoving traffic of the big city.