The Dracula Tour

For a more authentic experience, I continued my journey to Castle Bran, but was too late to see inside. Bran dates from 1377. The castle is well-maintained and part of the “Dracula Tour” of this area of Transylvania—why is a mystery really as the inspiration for Count Dracula spent little time here. Called Vlad the Impaler, this charming historical figure impaled tens of thousands of people on spikes and left them on public display. There is no evidence that he ever actually drank their blood, but Dracula does mean “son of the devil” in Romanian.

It is difficult to establish the source of Bram Stoker’s novel, however, if you’re interested to see for yourself, vampires are believed to hang around crossroads on St. George’s Day, April 23, and the eve of St. Andrew, Nov. 29. Dracula is recommended reading, and you can eat the very meal that the Count’s first victim ate at The Golden Crown in Bistrita, or you can sleep at the Castle Dracula Hotel in the Borgo Pass—where the fictional castle of the Count is supposed to be. The fortress at Poenari near Brasov was Vlad Dracula’s stronghold—you have to climb 1,850 steps to reach this ruined crow’s nest above the River Arges. 

One story that Stoker may have heard is that of Elisabeth, Countess Bathory, a 16th- century Hungarian royal and niece of the King of Poland, who married a Transylvanian prince. One of her penchants was to bathe in virgin’s blood—600 of them to be precise. If she managed to capture a particularly beautiful maiden, she would drink her blood from a golden cup in an effort to preserve her youth and beauty. The Countess was eventually incarcerated in a single room of her castle, where she languished for four years until her death. To read a full account of her activities as an original vampire go to: www.abacom.com/~jkrause/bathory.html.

Life In The Hills

Traveling this region today it’s common to see Gypsy hay carts rattling along pulled by scraggy old horses (under other conditions fit only for the glue factory) straining against the slopes to pull their ungainly cargos crowned by wide-eyed urchins.

How much longer will this continue? I noticed that the carts already carry registration plates. Perhaps in five years the cattle may be required to wear indicators rather than bells.

As you wind your way through these hills, impossibly picturesque vistas unfold round every corner. The jagged ridges of southern Transylvania provide a breathtaking backdrop to the rolling agrarian hills above and below. It takes considerably more concentration than you’ll likely be able to muster to take all this in whilst driving and avoiding the cattle dawdling home in the middle of the road. 

Traveling these roads, you’ll pass Gypsy caravans and shanty villages where Gypsy families live in tribal units. Chaotic establishments with animals and children everywhere, overlooked by crucifixes set into the rock faces above them.

Finally, as I was passing through, he plains opened out before me, and I stepped up my speed against the fast-approaching dusk. I wanted to get to the ancient capital of Wallachia, Tirgoviste, the seat of Vlad the Impaler. I imagined a medieval walled city with the occasional statue of Vlad and some of his closest impaled friends…perhaps even some stalls selling vampire teeth and T-shirts proclaiming “I’ve been to Dracula Country.” Not a bit of it. 

As I skirted the town, the surrounding countryside was suddenly bathed in eerie, post-Armageddon smog—an indescribable color, that on earth we might call mandarin cream, had my lungs gyrating in my chest. A stream of shift workers filed along the road as I passed the gates of the steel mill from whence emanated this phenomenon. Having struggled to hold my breath and keep the car in a straight line before blacking out, I emerged from the cloud. I missed the turn into the center of town and headed back to Bucharest. 

The Authorities Step In

It was raining and dark. Wherever I drove, people were walking along the roadside—apparently purposefully, but with no visible destination. Another Dali scene appeared out of the darkness in the form of a man shod in grocery store bags and matching hat. A Gypsy woman stared wildly at the passing car—golden hoop earrings and red paisley headscarf more befitting a fairground “Gypsy Rose Lee” who might put a curse on you when you fail to pay her for “predicting” your future.

I was flagged down shortly after this passing by the police. The officer sidled up to the car— tourist dollars twinkling in his eyes—a series of wild gesticulations and pointing ensued. I wondered if this was where it all might end (left bleeding and witless in a Romanian ditch) until my new friend asked for some cash. I suggested $50; no, $15 would do. Endless babbling and discussion in Romanian followed, very like Italian at times, enough so I was able to pick up the words “EU,” “government,” and “delegation.” 

The policeman eyed me up and down, and his demeanor softened as he pointed to his car. I followed, and the ticket book came out—tourism development, Casa Poporului (Romanian parliament) was mentioned again—culminating in the cash being pushed into the ticket book. Having closed the ticket book, he began his lecture: “Tell him that a representative of the EU should slow down in villages—the Gypsys are not beyond harming their own children for money.” 

With that sobering thought on my mind, I continued my journey across the plains toward the capital, not entirely comfortable with having been confused for a government employee, but grateful for the pay-off option.

Any Excuse For Fireworks

Like many Latin countries, any excuse is used for a massive fireworks jamboree—it was Europe Day, and parliament was lit up by festivities. The metro stations bustled, people threw themselves across the roads in masses, resulting in a cross jam of traffic and squeezing bodies. It was midnight and the streets were full, warm rain teeming down, police standing in huddles on street corners realizing the futility of crowd control.

After an hour of maelstrom, I left the traffic and the masses and headed gratefully toward my apartment—or so I thought. I had been told to keep the parliament in sight and follow the trolley bus. I could not go wrong, I’d been told—but I realized after several turns and miles of suburb that I had indeed gone horribly wrong. At one point, a detour unhinged my plan to retrace my steps and I descended farther into “Sovietblockville.” Everything looked the same to me—leafy boulevards with countless windows winking through the trees from the blocks behind. I was beginning to imagine myself running out of fuel and energy simultaneously in these streets and being eaten by feral dogs when the ubiquitous Lukoil blinked out of the gloom in front of me—a few maps later and I was on my way. A great many shops and bars remained open at 1 a.m., I noticed, even small street-corner stalls selling beer and fruit. I have never seen this anywhere else.

The Romanians have a reputation for suspect honesty. I believe that this is largely unfounded. You must be streetwise and careful, or some may try to take advantage. It may be force of habit—much of the population had to fight to eat until recently, and that is a hard thing to forget. Naivety is not tolerated.So be alert. But don’t let this keep you away. The opportunities in this country right now are nearly infinite, and seldom have I encountered a people more determined to get it right this time after such a prolonged period of repression.

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