To the page for Romania of the Trento Bike Pages

A Tour in Romania - 1986


By and Copyright © of Robert Mink bob@mzp.com.p;, March 1998

Introduction

The sporadic mentions of Romania on [Eurobike] and other cycling related groups prompted memories of my sojourn in the country for a week in '86. I glanced at my notes of the trip and wrote this up. I am rather unfamiliar with the rules of posting so to avoid being spammed, I'll break the report down to three sections. If they are too long, please advise me, (politely!) and I will cease. Since this is not a traditional milage report, perhaps another forum would be better, please advise.

I was studying in Poland and had the goal of riding to Israel by somehow convincing the skeptical Syrians that I was going to fly out of Jordan. As an American, the visa was not forthcoming so I settled for a trip from southwest Poland to Turkey and back. Of all the countries I traversed on this trip, the travails of Romania made the most lingering impression.

Many of my Polish friends thought I was mildly eccentric to ride to Istanbul but crazy to go through Romania. They should know, Poles were the Warsaw Pact's pack rats and the most traveled traders of all the citizens of the former communist counties. Poles hawked wares from sea to shining sea- the Black to the Baltic. No Polish peddler encouraged pedaling a bicycle through Romania. "The gypsies will eat you alive" was a common refrain. One friend suggested bringing 200 condoms to trade for food. The regime wanted more citizens so birth control was officially discouraged. "I saw used condoms hanging on clothes lines on balconies in Bucharest" he told me. The ill-conceived birth control policy gave birth to today's overflowing orphanages, where they actually use blood transfusions as a nutritional supplement because it's cheaper than food. Intrigued and a bit intimidated, I pointed my bike south and decided to take my chances. Have to admit that Cher's "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" was a tune that echoed through my head for the whole trip, persistent as a late night info-mercial trying to sell you all the music you hated from the seventies, just couldn't turn it off until I hit Bulgaria.

Hungary

In Hungary I stocked up with food and three cartons of cigarettes. The preferred brand was "Kent". In the States I thought of Kents as a brand for debauched Pat Boone types, you know, with slightly scruffed saddle shoes, off-white pants and slightly stained but nicely capped teeth. Come to think of it, Debby Boone singing "you light up my life" would have been great advertising for the brand. Years earlier the American Company had a joint venture in the country and it's marketing appeal worked long after the venture went up in smoke.

The Romanian and Hungarian comrades threats to close the "fraternal socialist border" for citizens of their neighboring countries created a queue of over three kilometers. The Romanians were angry that Radio Budapest's broadcasts incited the Hungarian minority in Transylvania to demand more autonomy. The Hungarians resented Romanian attempts to close down Hungarian cultural institutions that existed for centuries in Transylvania. Many of the east German trabants, Polish fiats and Romanian Dacias had tents pitched next to them, not an encouraging sign for us impatient types. I felt like I was on a rolling peep show while I meandered my way to the head of the line. Do you say "Good Morning" when you have eye contact with people in various states of undress and washing up in the early morning? I know that I shouldn't have looked, but many people were shouting and waving at me, many attired simply in their underwear. I don't know if it was because I was sneaking to the crossing or if they were providing moral support. Maybe it was a polyglot chorus of "lose faith all thee that enter here".

Entering Romania

The Hungarian guard barely looked at my passport and wished me "gute fahrt" , his tone and look of sympathy meant good luck more than "have a pleasant journey". The Romanians were a bit more formal and I was glad that I picked up three cartons of kents as I lost the first one just getting into the country. A woman custom's agent insisted that I go to the back of the line, all three kilometers of it. That would have been a problem as I would have to get another visa for Hungary! I don't know who told her I actually jumped the queue, in retrospect it was just a ploy for three packs of smokes. Then she ordered me to unpack my bike, every bag. I was lucky that I didn't bring the 200 condoms as it would have been hard to declare them for personal use. I guess to prove that they were really required for the duration of my vacation I could have asked the agent for a date, and yes, bring all friends and relatives. I'm sure that this request from a guy in black spandex wouldn't have been too surprising. When she demanded that I me to remove the seat post, another three packs. I didn't want to eventually take out the stem, bottom bracket and perhaps dismantle the freewheel. With a wag of a finger, she directed me to I step inside the custom's office. Immediate thoughts of the rubber glove treatment made if wonder if I should take my film canister full of Phil Wood grease. I brought it for emergencies but I thought it would be my hubs that would require the lube! How do you calculate the number of cigarettes required to prevent this ordeal? I was going to say "hey, why don't you check up the old prostate while you're at it, I'll throw in some more kents", but borders and airline security checks are bad time for jokes. Fortunately, my shorts stayed up and I was only requested to lay money down and do the mandatory exchange of hard currencyWhile trading a short stack of Hamiltons for a large pile of lei, I noticed a large refrigerator in the office. When a guard came in and crammed in a smoked ham, I saw the frig was stuffed with international delicacies. The stock of Hungarian salami, Swiss chocolates and branded booze would do a Manhattan emporium proud. The portrait of the ruler smiled and benevolently blessed all these transactions. He wore a robe and held a staff that looked suspiciously like a scepter. The leader of the Romanian Proletariat appeared more regal than red. Indeed, he was grooming his son to inherit the state, the first communist dynasty. While daddy lost his head before he could crown that of his Bolshevik boy, I am positive that the frig is as packed as ever, the lines are as long and the rubber glove poised for action.

With a wad of dirty lei in my wallet and the bike haphazardly repacked, I finally got back on the road, the crossing lasted only 90 minutes. I knew that some of the cars I passed in line would only pass me in a couple of days.

The road followed a river and was very scenic. I was relieved to see that I could at least understand some of the road signs. I was hopeless in Hungarian, a language that shares its roots with Estonian and Finnish and has a Turkish base. Romanians are proud that they are the heirs to the Romans and their language is the closest to Latin being spoken. In their cultural awakening, after centuries of domination by the Turks and other foreigners, they imported many words directly from the French. This said, I noticed a sign proclaiming "Drum Bun", means good road!

Nearly every time I stopped on the international road, dirty, begging children surrounded my bike and shouted "gumi gumi gumi", German for chewing gum. Their insistence quickly eroded whatever sympathy I had for them. I made a mental note that the next time I ride through the country, I'll bring massive quantities of ex-lax gum, the famous laxative. That would get them off the street for a while. I could see the national news now "dysentery strikes the national highway". As soon as I got off the main road, the children became shy as travelers were far too infrequent to create a begging mentality. Many of these beggers were gyspys, but it is grossly unfair to say all gypsies beg. They live, for lack of a better word, in clans each with its own profession. Some are settled and others, while nomadic, perform tasks like knife sharpening or repair work. The clans that practice beggary are a minority, but a rather vocal one. Of course, economics dictate what the clans can do. Many working gypsies are forced to at best beg, or at worst, liberate your personal belongings. You do have to be careful not to become "wheeless in Wallachia".

Transylvania

After leaving the frontier, the landscape gradually changed from the flat Hungarian plain back to the Carpathian Mountains, part of the same range that starts in southern Poland extends throughout the Balkans. After 30 km I felt the pressure of the frontier behind me and wanted to stop, meet the locals and attempt to grab something to eat and drink. I realized that this might have been wishful thinking. Even the Poles told me how poor Romania was, and Poland in '86 was hardly a consumer paradise Most of the regimes east of the Elbe maintained power through a Machiavellian mixture of nationalism, repression and classic Roman bread and circus. I thought that Ceausescu must throw his 22 million subject/comrades an occasional crust while wildly entertaining them with antics like playing god by diverting the ancient course of the Danube or with acting maverick by sending the only Soviet Block team to the LA Olympics. Romania is in Europe and I was confident that I wouldn't starve. Plus I had hard currency, and a stash bag of Kents, coffee, chocolate and other tidbits to barter for bed and breakfast. I thought it due time to put my confidence to the test and make the first foray for vittles.

Almost on cue, I saw three men of undetermined age talking loudly and walking with what appeared to be beers. Other travelers warned me that if a local spoke with a foreigner they would have to report the content of the conversation to the local People's Militia. While I found many people to be rather taciturn, these three members of beer drinking before noon brotherhood were very boisterous. As I fumbled through my phase book, one asked in formal German what I wanted. Bier hier. After loudly consulting with each other for several minutes the German speaker urged me to follow him, his friends reluctantly took up the rear. I was starting to get worried when we entered a barn and wound our way through a maze of doors in several buildings. After living in both Poland and East Germany I developed a casual sense of security. Normally, only Cops are criminals in a Police state and they are readily recognizable by their uniforms. Right when apprehension almost overpowered my thirst we broke into a courtyard. It was an opening surrounded by agricultural outbuildings, at one end was a makeshift bar, a rough plank precociously supported by two uneven barrels. Unmatched, chipped glasses and a tub of once clean water completed the décor. What the place lacked in ambiance, it made up in convenience as I brought my bike with me and parked it next to a hay-laden cart outfitted with iron wheels. The lone woman in the open-air establishment served me a beer courtesy of the German speaker. His generosity robbed me of the opportunity to sing "lei lady lei", a ditty I had running through my head since I changed money. Sincere apologies to Bob Dylan. After the delights of Bohemia brew, the taste left a lot to be desired but I felt lucky the drink was wet and hey, it was free. I opened a pack of Kents and passed them to men who all looked like could grace the cover of National Geographic. The mountain of a barmaid demurely hesitated but then deftly placed a lone smoke in her makeshift moneybox. Although I never received a butt in change, I later discovered that cigarettes were more commercially valuable than Romanian currency. The man who stood me the beer took two, put one behind his ear and fired the other one up. I asked him where he learned such perfect German, he countered by asking me where I learned mine because he could easily detect my accent. He was a "volksdeutsche" who could trace his ancestry to the "seven mountain Germans". After avoiding all conversation that could get my new found friends in trouble, I passed out more smokes and hit the road. Getting out of the Romanian speakeasy was easier than getting in, I just followed my bicycle tracks in the dust.

While I was riding in a People's Republic, the ethnic compensation of western Romania and the state of technology as evident in the makeshift bar made me feel like I was travelling in the Austrian Empire in the heyday of Franz Joseph's' reign. For centuries both Hungarian Kings and Austrian Emperors encouraged the settlement of hard working Germans to populate an area decimated by plagues and Mongol massacres. While always present, Romanians became dominate only after the First World War when Hungary lost (or Romania regained, take your pick) more than half its territory, including Transylvania. Ran down churches and roadside way stations illustrated the migrations of people. For every Orthodox Basilica I discovered that there was two Catholic Churches and even more Protestant chapels. A synagogue turned into a feed depot was a poignant reminder of the absence of recent residents. While forced to live in supposed socialist brotherhood, the region seethed with historical resentments. Ethnic Hungarian protests eventually heralded the annulment, of Ceausescu the Second's coronation. It was an inspiring sight to see dissidents waving the Romanian flag in cities with large ethnic Hungarian populations during Romania's revolution. The flag featured a large hole in place of the hated Socialist State Seal . Thus the citizens of Romania were finally united under a ventilated banner. Perhaps they are now combined in capitalism and history may be taking a back seat. While the political landscape of this contested land boasts tidal wave ebbs and flows, the ancient course of the river , the mountains and the perseverance of the populations served as reminders of the region's ultimate timelessness.

The Carpathian mountains have lost little of the wildness that inspired so many Gothic horror novels. Here the so-called "Seven Mountain Germans" built fortress villages in a strategy similar to the American pioneers circling of the wagons during an Indian attack. The German settlers joined their houses together in a continuous ring as defence against bandits and marauders in an area where imperial power was weak during the day and all but disappeared at night. In the heat of the afternoon, I completed a rather stiff climb from the river and pulled into the Market "Square" of one such round village. I saw a ghost town. The town pump was rusted and there was a dearth of activity. A third of the houses had broken windows and weeds grew between the flagstones. The inhabited homes had the look of genteel poverty. While the paint was faded, it was not chipped. The abandoned houses had wind swept debris on the doorsteps whereas handmade brooms leaning on tidy porches signaled occupancy. Either the windows were broken or squeaky clean. The only sound that signaled human habitation was a rhythmic thump that ricocheted off the walls of the enclosed plaza. I spied a solidarity girl simply clad in a schoolgirl's frock jumping rope. With each thump of the rope a small pile of dust rose about her ankles. She was well into puberty and I hoped no one thought me voyeuristic as I watched her skip. She shyly yet purposely established eye contact that I interpreted as an invitation to strike up a conversation. An old woman peeked between simple white curtains and warily chaperoned us with her glances. Risking appearing like a character created by Nabokov, I dug in my panniers and pulled out a chocolate bar that the girl gracefully accepted. Even though she was still engaged in childish games, I felt that in a matter of 24 months a Kent would be as eagerly welcomed. Despite her flawless German accent, it was obvious that she was linguistically wired for Romanian. When I asked her age she answered, "I have fifteen years" and not the Germanic "I am 15 years old". Only logical, my Slavic friends could never understand why we ask how old a baby is, as an infant is not old at all. I asked her where the villagers went. Many migrated to the larger towns, like her father and mother. Perhaps this village was one of the thousands that the regime sought to liquidate in a bizarre attempt to create a new class of "proletarian peasants" by forcing thousands of rural Romanians to move to semi-urban apartment blocks. She politely informed me that she was just visiting her grandmother for part of her summer vacation. She missed her cousins. Her uncle, like many others, took advantage of Germany's feudal citizenship law to return to a Homeland their great grandfathers never knew. The Federal Republic recognizes anyone that can prove they have sufficient German blood as Germans with full rights of resettlement. In the heat of the cold war so called "volksdeutsche" ranked among the region's largest exports. West Germany would actually pay communist governments a bounty per head. Poles used to call their self-professed Teutonic minority "Volkswagen Deutsche" because many families were claiming, and winning, German citizenship rights because they had a German Shepard two generations ago. This was a great propaganda tool during the cold war as the West could document people fleeing from communist tyranny. When the Berlin Wall fell a flood of Volga and Romanian Germans inundated the country. Integrating these people, whose ancestors left various German principalities before the French and the British colonized North America, is costing the treasury and is forcing Germans to reconsider Europe's most liberal immigration policy. Even in '86, it was apparent that Romanian's German community, with it's rich folk traditions , unique dialect and remarkable history would irrevocably fade from the Seven Mountains. The girl told me that her family was going to join Onkle und Tante very soon and she was actually staying with grandma for the last time. With this child goes the future and a distinctive part of Romania. What remains is Grandma sitting in an immaculately clean house while the village crumbles around her.

The first day was drawing to a close and I still did not know where I was going to lay my head. I continued following the river and put my trust in a map that denoted a camp ground in 40 km. The scenery was striking. The small hills were refreshing after the flat, straight roads of Hungary. The river villages differed greatly from their counterparts on hilltops. Instead of being round, they snuggled between the hills and riverbanks. Most were only two or three streets deep. Party slogans greeted me as I entered and left every town. While most villages were run down, I did not witness the pollution that has earned Romania condemnation not only from Greenpeace but from the country's neighbors and the World Health organization as well. In larger towns I was amazed to see huge bladders on top of the busses, they were full of clean natural gas. This was a pleasant surprise after all the other public transportation that previously spewed diesel soot on my face. If busses could blacken my visage, I wondered about the invisible crude in my lungs.

After 160 km I was ready for a rest and finally spotted the sign that I was on the lookout for. Both the map and the sign indicating the campground were guilty of false advertisement. Fronting the road was a restaurant / reception center. Two rickety tables with non-matching chairs set outside gave an appearance more like a child's lemonade stand than the recreational center promised. Keeping my bike in sight, I tried to enter the building only to be repulse by a burly man pushing me back out the door. I dug in my cleats and tried to explain that I wanted to camp. I pointed to the sign and to the information in the guidebook and he led me to the least dirty of the tables to fill out the required documents. It appears that the restaurant was not opened and he was living in the building. A pile of toys by the front door proved that it was a family affair.

I first had to tackle filling in the "temporary residence permit", including my mother's maiden name, her date and locations of birth. Orphans would have some trouble camping here I thought. To discover if anyone reads these thing, I was tempted to claim Ion Antonescu as my dearly departed daddy. He was Romania's fascist leader during World War II and a popular icon of the bad old days. Cowardly, I decided that a midnight interrogation by the Securitate, while interesting, could be rather unpleasant and may cut into my next day's mileage. Now the tricky questions: first citizenship, that's easy, whatever the passport says, then, the hard part for us mutts of Americans, "nationality". Usually I always wrote the nationality of the country that the locals are most friendly with. In Poland it was Hungarian and vice versa. I couldn't think of any countries that Romanians would automatically like. They have fought with all their neighbors at one time or another. To claim I am an American does not suffice as they can see by my sunburn that I am not an Indian. I drank green beer once, so I just wrote Irish. These permits are serious matters because you have to prove where you slept and how much money you paid for the privilege. All of this has to tally up at the end of the trip or they will know that you black marketed currency. While completing the section "occupation and educational level," I noticed several cars with foreign plates pull in, stick heads out the window, sniff about and then speed off. If I didn't have a 100 miles in my legs I would have tried to draft them to a better location. But the sun was setting, the legs were fried and there I was. Like it or not, this was home sweet home for the night. After paying in advance, he led me to a cabin. Out of the 20 or more vacancies, I was the only guest. The bathhouse was boarded shut and odors coming from a smaller building told me its function, of course bring your own paper. The cabin's beds, without sheets or blankets, were damp and reeked of mold. Insects protested my intrusion. Using pantomime, I asked him if I could camp, yes I could but I would still have to pay for the cabin. No problem, I quickly set up camp, parked my bike in the cabin with insects as guards. I showered under a hose with cold water in the open. Since there was no one there, I did not blush as I bared myself to this water torture. Now clean, I was feeling rather lean and looking forward to a culinary experience. I sat myself at the table and waited, and waited and waited. After 20 minutes the ill-tempered innkeeper stalked out of the house and asked me what I wanted. I pointed to all the food in my phase book to see what he had. Now he knew that I was crazy. He hadn't served food here for months. I offered him a Kent and he roughly took it. Still, nothing on the menu. His wife, perhaps feeling a little sorry for me, came out of the house with fresh bread and a drink of fermented dairy product. She refused money for it. I gave her a chocolate for the couple's unseen, but readily heard children. I retreated to my tent and was surprised at the ravages inflicted on my hoard. And I still have several days to go.

Across the hills

After a fitful nights sleep I woke up and immediately packed my bike. I didn't even dream about breakfasting at this place so I just rode off into the sunrise, hoping that I had all the official stamps that proved that I paid, I laid and I left. Ten miles later I found a scenic spot by the river and opened a tin of Hungarian peaches. After I greedily emptied the can, I filled it with water and drank the contents so I could eke out every drop of nutrient possible. Instead of flattening the container, I put it on a fence post, knowing that someone would recycle it. A few peasants in traditional billowing while blouses floated passed me without pausing to talk.

I had to rejoin the main road for 80 km. At a major junction I pulled into a gas station hoping to fuel up with some java. More than a dozen semis, all with foreign plates, were parked on the periphery. Where there are truckers there must be coffee I blearily reasoned. I walked into the grubby shop and was taken aback. My eyes feasted on single packages of coffee, candy, and cigarettes randomly jumbled up on a single shelf. My mouth water at seeing my favorite West German cookies "Prince". Feeling like a king, I bought the snacks and ordered two coffees, saves time in getting the required refill. Despite the meager fare, the price was several times more than what I paid for the cabin. I had to lay off the leis or I wouldn't have enough cash to officially pay for my accommodations. Since no one as yet approached me to black market currency, this could have been a problem.

Ignoring the dust caused by trucks coming and going I chose to enjoy my unexpected treats outside. Two tables away sat a young girl of around 10 or 11, accompanied with, I guessed, her older sister. The elder girl's make up, henna hued hair and the way she crossed her eyes and sucked in her cheeks when she took a deep drag of a smoke made her look 16 going on 60. Under the table were several worn plastic shopping bags from Germany's leading department stores. Suddenly, another painted girl clutching fruits and other foodstuffs jumped out of a truck with Greek registration. She ran to the table and the youngest girl with a practiced hand quickly opened a plastic sack and stuffed the cache in. The second girl grudgingly gave up her chair to the new arrival and got up and started sultrily slinking around the trucks. I didn't know if she had more years than the semis had wheels. With a lower lip set in a pubescence pout she stood on tiptoes and knocked on doors. The third time's a charm and a German rig rolled down a window and a hasty deal was stuck. I watched her shimmy in, pulled by a disembodied and furry arm. Before the door slammed shut, she kicked her skinny legs for momentum and displayed the color of her panties, triggering juvenile guffaws and dirty snickers by several middle-aged truckers. Before I finished with my first cup of coffee, the girl hopped out of the truck with a pair of cheap plastic sandals and some groceries. The ten-year-old apprentice knew her job as she expertly opened a bag ironically labeled "Kaufthaus des Westens" and squeezed in the footwear. The older girl took part of the groceries into the office and handed them over to the clerk, who minutes before sold me the cookies. The pandering Police ignored this for tidbits and I wondered how many people got an economic leg up by these girls being on their backs. The resting member of the tag team tarts fixed a weary but inquisitive gaze at me. Too quickly, I averted my eyes compelled by a strange combination of feeling guilty for voyeurism and worried of her erroneously thinking that I was sitting in judgement. Flustered, she blushed and became childlike when she realized I was up on her tricks but not one of them. The cookies almost choked me when I discovered their real price and I washed them down with coffee that suddenly acquired a bitter flavor. With a bad taste in my mouth, I returned to the ride. The image of girlish legs dangling out of the truck, like limbs in the maw of a beast devouring someone headfirst, haunted me for miles.

I was on the Romanian roller coaster, both in hills and in moods. So far it was 50/50. Half the time I was up and incredibly impressed with the beauty of the country and the resourcefulness and dignity of a people who could endure a painful history and such conditions. The other half of the time I was down, appalled by grime, the threats of poverty-bred crime and the total lack of privacy. Every time I stopped in a village, a crowd would encircle me. Everyone shoved handfuls of lei in my face. Dirty hands tugged my faded and sweaty tee shirt while shouts of "wie viel and "how many" assaulted my ears. It was apparent that there was no shortage of money, just nothing to buy.

The tranquillity and the timelessness of the countryside inspired and reinvigorate me. On a rather steep climb I drafted a wagon driven by an old man and doggedly pulled by a swayback that could have been a colt during World War II. Neither the man nor the wagon made any concessions to the twentieth century. He was costumed in traditional peasant garb, not the colorful feast day attire touted in tourist brochures, but an everyday plain white blouse with baggy blue pants tucked into high black boots. Horse drawn wagons are not a novelty in Eastern Europe, but this was the first one I saw that did not patch and attach pneumatic tires to smooth out the ride. This mobile museum rolled on wooden wheels shod with strips of iron. Two fresh-faced children made faces at me behind their granddad's back. Perhaps they were just mimicking my grimace as I tacked the hill. When the boy acted too rudely, his sister slapped him along side the head and shrugged her shoulders in apology.

I successfully skirted urban areas but both curiosity plus the need to cross a river led me to one of Transylvania's largest and most admired cities. Traffic picked up considerably but was still sparse for a regional capital. While in need of repair, the city was clean and the attractions rivaled those I've seen in the West. The bike limited my mobility, as I didn't dream of leaving it unattended. After a quick tour of the Town Square, I saw a hotel that looked like a refuge for westerners. I noticed a cloakroom near the entrance so waving a pack of Kents, I asked the attendant if he could check my bike while I dined. No problem. I thought it a bit gauche if I took off the pump and computer in front of him. In a flash, I got the idea of taking a picture of the attendant and my bike together. This would serve as evidence if I returned to find the stead stripped. Looking like a camera crazed Japanese tourist, I asked him to say cheese.

The restaurant oozed pretension thinly disguised as Old World charm. The establishment came complete with once white table clothes and snotty waiters nattily dressed in patched coats and stained ties. My cleats and shorts did little to make me look like a big tipper and I was treated accordingly. The headwaiter ceremoniously opened a thick menu with all but two items crossed out. Overwhelmed by the selection, I decided to order both dishes. With a flourish, he whipped out a pen and indicated that he was going to cross out the remaining entrees. His pen retreated elegantly back to his pocket after I put two packs of Kents on the table. The first course was a rather tasty soup and the second was chicken. I was hoping for a wine, but I was glad to get a mineral water. It seemed that the fowl flew over Chernobyl or was starved during a 400-km chicken drive from the Black Sea and over the Transylvanian Alps, get along little pullet. Perhaps it was a pigeon, range fed on the Market Square, that the chef netted and transformed into poultry for my dining pleasure. Even with the cigarettes, I still had to pay the price on the menu. I tipped the busboy with some smokes and decided to see what was for sale on the newsstand.

The hotel's kiosk featured all the news that was fit to print, as deemed by the Romania authorities. I bought a local paper and glanced at it like a comic book by just looking at the pictures. The typical tableau of tractors riding into the sunset and the social life of higher-ranking comrades made for lack luster reading, even if I could decipher the text. It wasn't a complete waste of time looking for Newsweek as I discovered a "dollar store" in the lobby.

In efforts to transfer hard currency from under citizens' mattresses into the national bank, most communist countries set up capitalist shops. For marks, pounds, francs and dollars citizens could gratify their yen for imported luxury products. In Poland the stores featured everything from fancy foodstuffs to stereos, at prices cheaper than in the West. I knew that Romania had these stores and I counted on them to replenish my stock of provisions in order to survive. A haze of white powder engulfed me when I entered the den of western materialism. I watched as a whitewashed clerk attempted to refill a broken a bag of flour. With a makeshift ladle of paper and his hand, he shoveled the meal up from a grimy counter and poured it into a plastic bag. With each scoop, he created a cloud that dusted him and his client. The shop sold only basic Romanian goods for hard currency. Now I was totally convinced of the near total breakdown of the nation's economy, as domestic flour was considered a luxury worthy of dollars. Not being a baker, there was little for me to buy so left empty-handed and dishearten. I redeemed by bike with the promised pack of smokes. The cloak room attendant kindly filled my bottles with mineral water without being asked or paid. The extravagant meal with valet parking forced me to break into my final carton of Kents. The inability to replenish my depleted stores motivated me to forsake Bucharest and make a beeline for the Bulgarian border.

I pulled out of town and had to stop to inspect my tires because I heard a hissing. Strange, tires seen fine. During a wild descent from one of Romanian's highest mountain passes, I heard a loud pop and went immediately into the "I've blown a tire at 70 km and I am about to crash and burn" mode. Tires were fine but my legs were wet. The gassed water blew off the bottle top.

Romania's Heartland

After several hours of steady riding I was out of Transylvania and entered the historic and ethnic heartland of the Romania. The contrast was startling. Folk artists painted polychromatic icons on the buildings that sheltered the town wells. Orthodox churches dominated and the people even dressed differently. No matter where I stopped, a crowd of eager traders would gather, wanting to sell or barter berries and other produce. The spontaneous materialization of crowds in a previously empty field or woods caused major bladder problems. While I wasn't worried that the locals would think that I was putting the family jewels on the open market, a sense of modesty constrained me. Fortunately when I finally abandoned propriety for relief privacy prevailed.

Nearing the end of the day I stopped at a junction to consult my map and tourist guide regarding my lodgings. I was worried that my official guidebook was written in newspeak, instead of "war is peace" I had "food is starvation" and "modern recreational facility is sleep on dirt without a shower while going hungry". My Orwellian guidebook promised that just over the next hill I would find myself in the lap of luxury. My stomach growled in a Pavlovian reaction when I read the words "modern recreational facility". The second was a "Health Spa" with mineral baths that was 10 miles to the left and a distance I would have to backtrack the next day. Although I already had 100 miles in the legs and was tired after conquering the Transylvanian Alps, I decided to take the waters. After the night before, I was expecting little but got a lot.