Dobry den, again, again

I rumbled out of Romania last night. From the sleepy little town of Sighisoara, I crept across rural Transylvania, bounding between the backs of the mighty Carpathians, sweeping through the gypsy camps and medieval villiages dotting the hillsides, and bouncing over the border to Hungary, the land of the Torma.

I never felt safe in Romania. The gypsies, however, were the least of my worries (although on one occasion, I had to throw cigarettes at a pack of them to cover my escape). The dogs were the source of my fear. An English woman warned me, "if you meet a pack of wild dogs on the hillside, be careful, cause they might maim and kill you." So, when I met a pack of wild dogs on the hillside the next day, I was careful to avoid the fulfillment of her prophecy. And, I'm happy to say, my quizzical compatriots, that I have all my limbs and digits firmly intact. I did, however, feel like a pencil lead in a giant maze. Turn first alley, dogs say no. Retrace steps. Find new passage, again, blocked by dogs. Retrace. There was only 1 path back to the hostel, and after a bit of trial and error, my posse and I found it. Bucharest bore me, Brasov and Sighisoara undid me. (If anyone understands that, I'll buy you an Efes or a jug of Old Scrumpy).

The truth of the matter is that I found Romania, for the most part, boring. I would've liked to have had a car there (gasp!). The charms of Romania, of which there are many, I'm sure, tend to lay off the beaten track (even more so than mountain villiages in the Carpathians). I constantly felt like I wanted to set off in some random direction, find a crumbling little villiage, and have a picnic. But, alas, the dogs and gypsys made that impossible by foot. Oh, I had great times there, sitting in the swimming pool with John, watching the ravens circle the old town square in Brasov, drinking 2 litre bottles of cheap Romanian beer over goulash and cabbage pies. However, at times, the whole country seemed antagonistic to me - trying to steal my money, bite my ankles, and stand between myself, and that which I love. That's you, you Slavs, don't be coy.

Hungary is/was/will always be a different story. Eastern Europe it may be, but crossing that border felt like re-entering the civilized world. And, I was surprised to see how much more Westernized it had become in the 4 years since my last visit. Spent this afternoon in Budapest, soaking in the mineral baths in the park before bidding adieu to Kha and George and coasting across the vast Hungarian plains to Bratislava. Oh, you Slavs. You funny little Slavs, I love you. You missed me too, didn't you? Say it. Go on, don't be shy...

So, it's not Prague, not yet, but I still get a dobry den when I skip down the street, a prosim when I sweep up my change, and the trams still say (Priste zastavka...). Thomas, please refrain from correcting my spelling. Diky moc. And, while I've got you in the paragraph, I'll be there Saturday afternoonish. I've got to check the train schedule, but I know I'm only about four hours away! Exciting, innit? And you, quid dicere debeo? hicne legere debes? basia mille tibi... For the rest of you, only basia centa. You'll have to come to Prague to pick up the other 900.

Forever your pair of ragged claws,

Aaron Rotsinger