At some point, most foreigners coming to Romania start asking about the real-life Dracula, the Wallachian prince Vlad III or more dramatically known as Vlad the Impaler (Vlad Tepes). This being the holiday season, and because my friend Alan Price was on a week-long break from exhibiting his computer animation prowess at the Ares Electronica Center in Linz, Austria, I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to play American tourists and go vampire hunting in the snowy Carpathian Mountains.
Years ago, Alan played bass and I sang and honked the sax in one of Tampa’s seminal punk bands, The Veal Rifles (aka Real Vital). Alan were roommates in college, I was best man at his wedding, and we’ve attended more than one friend’s funeral together. Alan is a beautiful human being: kind and calm and chock full of information. A couple of nights ago, he told me the name for the indented knob at the bottom of a wine bottle (the punt) and why it’s there (for separating the dregs from the rest of the wine). I told him that he would’ve made a good doctor or airline pilot. I meant it as a compliment.
We met at the train station in Bucharest and ten minutes later were on an Accelerat train heading north to the Transylvanian city of Brasov. The Accelerat is only slightly slower than the newer, cleaner Intercity and Rapid trains. The slow and funky Personal trains are a post-communist adventure. For some reason, Romanians seem to have especially sensitive ears. I mean, the sidewalks can be icy and everyone’s walking around smiling, but the slightest breeze, even in not-so-freezing weather, and fur hats get pulled low, collars go up, and people lean into the wind like they’re trying to push over invisible walls. Romanian trains in the winter are like slow-roast ovens. Pity the ignorant foreigner who tries to cool things down by opening a window…
Snow began falling as the train wound its way along the Prahova valley, surrounded on both sides by the sheer cliffs of the Bucegi mountains. At tiny stations along the way, Gypsies pushed through groups of snowboarders. Arriving in Brasov, Alan and I zipped up our winter clothes, and made our way to the Pensiunea Casa Wagner. Brasov was settled by Saxons, and the Old Town is loaded with Baroque German architecture. Legend has it that after leading children underground in Hamelin, the Pied Piper and his young wards surfaced in Transylvania near the site of the town’s main square, Piata Sfatului. Our wood-beamed room at the top of the pensiunea overlooked the square and the gigantic 14th century Black Church. The Piata bustled with winter cheer: a tall lighted Christmas tree lorded over an outdoor ice-skating rink, kids sang carols, and snow fell lightly all through the night.
We rode a cable lift up the side of Mount Tampa (!) to the tall metal BRASOV sign at the summit. Snow clouds engulfed us, obliterating the views of the city below. We tromped around in the squeaky snow, then headed back down to meet up with Jeremy Hawkins, a fellow Fulbrighter and poet, for a night out on the town. Starting with warm spiced wine (vin fiert) at a mellow café, progressing through a teen dominated hip-hop club run by a guy from Boston, and ending up in an attic room of a French electronica chill bar, surrounded by plastered Romanian students, a fun night was had by all.
The next morning, we bypassed the town of Bran, billed on tourist maps as the site of Dracula’s castle. The truth is, Vlad laid siege to the castle in 1460, but nobody other than misled tourists believe he ever lived there. So instead, we rode a train to the tiny industrial town of Rupea, and attempted to find a maxitaxi that would take us to the Gypsy village of Viscri where I was told we might hear wolves at night. However, according to the locals, there was no transportation to Viscri, so we drank coffee and ate pistachios in a smoky locals bar, then caught a Personal train to Sighisoara, the birthplace of Vlad, arriving at dusk.
The old town, gobbed around the citadel, looms over the rest of the city like a jumbled, orange-roofed mesa. A wintry mix fell, and at the base of steps leading to the citadel, a shaggy dog appeared and took the lead, shepherding us up the icy stone steps. At the main square, past the clock tower, the dog sat proudly in front of a white building. We kept looking for the Casa cu Cerb (house with the deer), and as we walked around the side of the building, the dog came over and began to whine. It was then that we realized our guide had led us to the front door of our hotel, as evidenced by the stag head on the corner of the place. We entered, the dog ran in, and the owner thanked it, calling the dog “Jimmy.” After dinner, we explored the old town, walking up a steep, covered 175 wooden steps (the Scholar’s Stairs, built in 1642) that brought us to the Church on the Hill and its Saxon cemetery. Ice and rain once again turned to snow, and as we prowled the eerie quiet, the citadel’s thick stone walls and towers hemmed us in, preventing us from tumbling into the night.
In the morning, we explored the clock tower and the little wooden mechanical figures therein, the weapons museum, then talked our way into the locked-up torture museum. We were most impressed there by the replica wooden ladder, where authorities would stretch their victims taut and slowly roast them alive. From Sighisoara, we headed to Sibiu, wandered the city at night, pushed past Gypsy street teens offering sex, and had dinner at a traditional Romanian restaurant, where I got the sarmale, meat and grape leaves and spices smothered in sauerkraut.
According to Romanian folklore, vampires rise from their graves carrying their coffins on their heads, try and gain entry into their former homes, and fight one another with hemp whips at crossroads. And though believed by some to be in league with the Devil, Vlad Tepes seems to have exhibited no vampire tendencies. After his father, Vlad Dracul, was murdered, he and his brother spent five years in Turkish captivity. Vlad became ruler of Wallachia in 1456, and quickly gained infamy as an extremely harsh law enforcer. Under Vlad’s jurisdiction, all crimes, even petty theft, were punishable by death. According to my Rough Guide book, “Victims were bound spread-eagled while a stake was hammered up their rectum, and then were raised aloft and left to die in agony, for all to see.” Once, when a Turkish army invaded Wallachia, they were greeted by a forest of stakes 1km by 3km wide, upon which 20,000 Turkish and Bulgarian captives had been impaled. Needless to say, the Turkish army retreated in horror.
The ruins of Vlad’s castle perch high above the village of Arefu. Snow had fallen the night before, and at noon on Christmas Day we hiked up the 1200 snow covered stone steps and crossed the wooden footbridge and stood in the winter quiet, overlooking the Arefu River Valley. The next morning, our hotel waiter would give us a ride to a bus stop. There, we would wait in the cold for an hour, and then flag down a passing car. A man and woman would drive us back to Cartea de Arges. They would speak no English. The man would steer his car into a dreary apartment complex and flag down a young man whom he correctly guessed spoke English. The young man would tell us that the bus to Bucharest would be leaving in ten minutes. When offered 10 lei for his trouble, the driver would wave the money away with a smile. On the way to Bucharest, our bus would break down. A second bus would come and take us the rest of the way. Once in Bucharest, a man sitting beside me on the bus would offer to show us the way to the metro. A second man, overhearing our confusion in the subway, would offer to walk us to our hotel.
It's interesting to see which friends stay in touch once we go away. This has been my first Christmas spent outside the U.S., and though I have missed my friends and family dearly, I have not missed the frenzy that has come to define so much of our holiday season. On the train back to Craiova today, a young couple in love turned their laptop toward a six year-old boy sitting beside me so he could watch Kung Fu Panda with Romanian subtitles. While watching the movie, the boy offered me one of his chocolate cookies. Later, he stretched out across the seat, his head in his mother’s lap, his feet propped up on my forearm. I am forging new friendships here, and strengthening the bonds of others. It’s late now, and my eyes need rest. When I close them, I’m on the bus to Bucharest. Alan dozes, lightly snoring. A bleached blond woman sitting in front of me talks on her cellphone. Outside, the frozen gray fields flash past like a rhythmic black and white movie. At a village crossroads, late in the evening, coffin on my head, hemp whip in hand, I search for a home once lived in, a new home, home.
