Day 1/Day 2- Clug

 “Your bag is in the airport” announces my air tag and I breathe a sigh of relief. After last years’ experience with Air Canada, where my luggage joined the pile of homeless suitcases, I did not expect much. I often wonder if my suitcase is in a deep depression wondering why I abandoned it, or perhaps it has found a nice person to adopt it. I must confess I do like my new carry -on so much better as it has four wheels and takes off at a moment’s notice. No more temper tantrums from the old two-wheel suitcase that would refuse to move if it stubbed its wheel somewhere. Meanwhile, a fellow traveler on our plane arrived at the baggage carousel only to find one side blown out and the lining barely holding the clothes together. Certainly, it was bullied by all the other suitcases jumping up and down on it.

“Why Romania?”, is the question people kept asking. “Why not?” I retort. I can’t give you one reason why I wanted to go to Romania. Could be the Eastern European rolled stuffed cabbage or maybe the plum brandy that knocks you off your feet, then again it might be the old women in their head scarfs, printed skirts sturdy legs and fallen arches, or the painted wooden churches. I don’t know why I wanted to go; I just did.

Entering Cluj you see the Russian architecture of the communist era. It is not until you get closer to city center, then the architecture changes and the old city emerges with cobblestone streets, Catholic and Orthodox churches, monuments to past kings, and priests. It has a way of wearing its history with pride but ask a Romanian and they will tell you the Russian occupation was a dark time for them.

We all piled into a large van and were promised an exciting day by our fearless leader, Jerome Woodhouse, and Daniel his side kick from Romania. Together they are like a comedy team feeding off each other. They are both entertaining and professional.

It’s the first half hour in the bus and we come to a screeching halt in front of a house with an elderly woman dressed in black, peacefully enjoying the sun. Out jump 9 Americans, two Canadians, and on Romanian all with cameras and huge smiles on our faces. Of course, it is perfectly natural to invade someone’s home, piling into the yard, and trying to convince the younger generation that “Great Grandma” wanted her picture taken. As it turns out she did, and within minutes we had her daughter, daughter-in-law and great granddaughter posing for pictures.

That set the tone for the rest of the day with stops along the way to photograph men loading grass into wooden wagons, and families loading corn for feed into corn cribs, watching a water wheel turning and pounding wool into blankets while another older woman fed hot water onto the wool. A felting process I thought stopped back in the last century or so.

We finished the day by joining a parade of cars honking and winding their way to bring the groom to the bride’s home. Again, we all piled out of the van, mingled with the crowd dressed in their finest or native costume and we, dressed in our finest jeans and Patagonia shirts, with cameras ready to shoot the festivities. You don’t think it is perfectly normal to have a van full of strangers join in the celebration? We were welcomed with glasses of plum brandy, cabbage rolls, cake, and lots of laughter.

As the wedding party hopped into cars, we followed in our van. At the edge of town everyone unloaded from their cars, and us from our van, and strolled along the road through the town to the church. Click, Click, click was the parallel sound to the drum, and violins playing beside us. A hike up to the church where finally the bride and groom come together, the priest shows up and into the church everyone goes. All the guests waving us in to witness the marriage. After about a half an hour we all made our way back to the van and to our guest house for the next two nights in the Maramures region. Don’t ask where that is, none of us know.

To the wedding couple who allowed us to join them, I wish them a long and lively life.