Having survived the night relatively intact, we awoke to a bright sun-shiney day and the sounds of Romania. Some undisclosable delays were encountered which pushed back the whirling hands of time. Of course, we had to make arrangements for Azorel to end up in a friendly home rather than risk a roadkill incident during the journey.

So, much later than planned, we finally hit the road toward Targu Jiu.

But it’s not like you just step outside the front door and plop out your thumb. Nossir, strap on that 10-ton backpack which, by magically weighing a three to four times the weight of its contents, proves the notion that the whole is indeed more than the sum of its parts. Now, even though your feet are blistered, you must march umpteen kilometers from the center of town to the very outskirts of city limits.

It was a foarte cald day and the intrepid duo felt fairly leneş. Given the circumstance, perhaps you can understand why we ducked into the last magazin on the strada for a bottle of water şi ingheţata.

A moment of crisis arose when I spotted a 2 liter bottle of Alutus beer, but ultimately I realized I didn’t want carry that much extra weight across half of Romania when my straps were already starting to fray. Plus, I could always just pick a bottle up on the way back.

We stood on DN67 about a hundred yards inside of the OMV which marked the boundary of where Ramnicu Valcea ended, exchanging curious stares with the multitudes of “poor people” in Romania’s “bad economic environment” who comprised an endless stream of brand new Mercedes-Benz luxury cars and BMW sports sedans.

A rambling silver Dacia beeped its horn to wake us up 15 minutes later as it began to pull over. Yes! Chasing the brakelights, we caught up pretty quick with the family inside. Tati was at the wheel and mama in the passenger seat. Junior moved out of the dangerously unseatbelted center and made room for us to climb in after a brief pauza to place the bags in the trunk.

In spite of the presence of religious artifacts, I’m not entirely sure if the family worshipped three gods or 17. Where I to venture a guess, I’d say various faces staring down at me from the visors, rearview mirror, and ceiling were beseechings for such tutelaries as Christopher, Gertrude, George, Mary, some unrecognizables and possibly also Jesus.

I tried not to become overly nervous of the thought that so many various deities were being invoked to battle for over whom would protect it me; it was a little dizzying to be around so many halos. Lemonmouse made some small conversation about our recent fun in Calimaneşti and how we were going to Tismana for a different festival populare.

And then it was my turn to practice a little romaneşte. Our friendly hosts smiled broadly as I struggled with some of the words, but with a little traduceri here and there they seemed to understand. And, of course, came the obligatory discussion of Texas and George Bush.

“You know, that Bush, he’s doing the right thing in Iraq and Afghanistan. He should go to Iran and Syria next,” exclaimed the driver. “We need to kill off every one of those damn muslims.”

Well, praise be. How do you deal with that? The driver grinned at me through the rearview mirror anticipating my agreement. I looked up at the Christian artifacts pincushioned to the ceiling liner. “Bush is the kind of president I would like to like. He’s certainly doing well in some areas, but there are many problems as well.”

From there the conversation turned to Bill Clinton. Then Hillary Clinton. John McCain. Ion Illiescu. Adrian Nastase. Traian Basescu. And the whole gamut of politics, from Putin to Saddam. We somehow managed to keep things friendly by poking a few jokes at just about everyone. I eased into my seat feeling a bit more comfortable.

As the young son frequently stared at my distinctly different facial features, our group discussed some of the finer points of Romanian geography, economic realities, and tourist sights. We stopped at Horezu along the way to inspect some of the fine wares from local merchants.

The ride in the Dacia progressed a little slowly, but I really felt that — despite some political and religious differences — these were really great everyday people. We had a fun time continuing our conversations about the future of Romania and the natural wonders it has to offer both natives and visitors alike.

As we entered the city limits of Targu Jiu, our host family was kind enough to inquire if we wanted to stop briefly at the Infinite Column made by Constantin Brancusi. Um, yes, please! And thank you.

They pulled over at a park on the eastern edge of town and let me scramble out to snap a photo or two of this rather impressive and intriguing piece of art work.

Around the time the security guard came over to wave his finger at me, I noticed the family was no longer in the park with me. I thought this police officer was going to harass me about some faux pas I had made, but he was merely trying to direct me to an English language descriptive sign located a couple dozen meters away.

Worried about where my ride (and bag) was, I hustled over to speedread the sparse information the sign offered. The security guard had lumbered after me, so when I turned around I was a bit surprised to find he was just near me. I forced an uneasy smile and said mulţumesc. “Cu placere.”

Beep, beep, beeeeeeep. A car horn. Run!

I made a dash for the edge of the park and, just as I arrived at the street, I saw the family inside their Dacia eager to continue their trip home. They had no intention of abandoning me, but I realized perhaps I had overstayed my welcome outside the silver confines of my ride. Fortunately, they were polite enough smile and wave me inside.

They took us deeper inside the city of Targu Jiu, talking rapidly about the various landmarks and points of interest along the way. I comprehended much of it (certainly more than in the past) but it was really directed at Lemonmouse, being a native of Romania.

The father was courteous enough to ask where we were going and offered to take us to the best place considering their own destination. We pulled over at the main park in the centru and he leapt out to free my bag from the trunk.

I worked the straps over each shoulder, suddenly feeling twice my normal weight again. Having kept the back door open, I leaned in to thank the mother for her hospitality. Then I shook the young man’s hand and saw the dad swell with pride that I’d respected his kid.

Lemonmouse asked about the best way to find the road to Tismana. With both his words and motions, I understood completely. Either go around the park or through it, but end up on that road over there towards the right. Go down a ways and turn right again. There you should be able to find another ride the rest of the way.

A few thank yous and 15 RON later, we headed into the park to see some of Brancusi’s other famous abstract scupltures: the Gate of the Kiss and the Table of Silence.

After stopping to ponder the style and significance of these works, Lemonmouse and I headed out of the park and across a bridge overlooking an absolutely filthy manmade canal with it’s floating PET boats. Hurrying to avoid the stench, we found ourselves walking in a decrepit neighborhood where drunk Romanians and dirty Roma stared us as if we were from Mars, lost on the way to Pluto.

Wanting to confirm our path, we decided to speedwalk in order to catch a frail old woman who was carrying two large, heavy bags some distance ahead of us. Being somewhat youthful, it shamed us to realize that we wouldn’t be able to catch her in a block. Or two. She was really scooting along.

An embarrassing distance later, we managed to saddle up alongside this shell of a human. She confirmed that we need only continue walking another couple/few kilometers to reach the intersection where we would turn right.

But she clucked disapprovingly and repeatedly lectured us on how we should go back the way we came in order to catch a proper bus because only a fool would keep on walking so far. Besides, did we know how far away Tismana was? Tourists, bah.

For the sake of brevity, my friends, let us agree that we made it to the intersection in question, turned right, and saw that just another two blocks ahead was a great void in civilization where we would need to indicate our willingness to ride with whomever might fancy strangers on board. Fortunately, the corner was host to a refreshment stand where we could reinvigorate our stamina.

And lemme tell y’all whut. This here beer? I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, but that ol’ Haţegana wuddn’t half bad. Matter of fact, I reckon I was fixin ta sleep me under that there keg, I tell you whut. S’got some might powerful hops for this neck of the woods. Boy howdy.

Guess who just qualified for Camptionatul Mondial de Bere? Mmmhmmm. We’ll worry about the details later, but there’s no way Haţegana can be left out. Ditto for Alutus.

Refreshed and ready for action, we moseyed on past the couple of hitchhiking folks who represented our competition. The bags came off and kicked up a little dust from the force of their gravity. Out came the sign, upon which I’d hastily scribbled “Tismana.” We watched as a couple other people got picked up, but we didn’t wait too long.

A rather odd-looking white van pulled up to let some professionally dressed woman in her late 50’s enter through the side door panel. The driver motioned at me as if to ask, “where are you going?” So, I pointed to the sign which was already held aloft for him to read had he bothered. He waved us to come join the circus. And we did.

I’m not exactly sure what the peanut-chomping, sweaty, middle-aged man and his apparent wife, dressed in a nunnery outift, were up to really, but I can say we were happy to be given a lift in the late afternoon. The back end of the van was replete with blanket covered benches, a spare tire, refridgerator, and bedroom linen.

We sat opposite the professional lady as the van struggled to get underway. A little conversation was tried but between the grinding of gears and whining strain of the engine, we gave up hope of any lasting discussions. Small talk was yelled loudly and mostly consisted of did she know about the festival in Tismana we were trying to find. She didn’t.

The driver instructed us to keep the roof ventilator open, before he shut the window to the cabin and left us with the putrid aroma of kerosene and sulpher. Lemonmouse noticed the rubber soles of her shoes were beginning to melt from the heat of the metal box that must have held the transmission.

I’m not sure how soon exactly it was that I noticed this particular van was fighting to make any distance at all. I felt like we might never arrive anywhere around the time I saw an elderly disabled man on a bicycle pass us on the road to Tismana.

While that particular event may not have ever really happened, I can say I was tempted to get out and push during the several times the road had an incline steeper than 6 or 7 degrees.

Unfortunately, we were in fairly remote country without too much traffic and it probably would have been unwise to get out early. So we hung in for the duration and paid 5 RON once reaching the outskirts of Tismana.

We were back on our feet again, straddled down under the oppressive weight of our baggage and trying to make sense of our rural village surroundings. A group of partiers at the roadside bar seemed to find endless entertainment at the very sight of us. We realized there must only be one way to go and thus headed down what appeared to be the main road.

Along the way, we asked an old man where the centru was. He looked at each of us, up and down, before replying that it was a good five kilometers down the road from where we were. Then snorted and wandered off.

I made sure to grant a friendly “buna seara” to all the elderly people, sitting on the edge of their property as is the custom, who stared at us as we passed along the way. Each time, they suddenly smile, nodded, and returned the greeting.

A couple of very loud, but sober, women were swinging what appeared to be brooms in the air as they approached us. I prompted Lemonmouse to ask them about the centru and the festival.

They were a little dumbfounded as they explained there was no centru really, but perhaps we meant the police station some distance ahead. As for the festival, they snickered at our misfortune.

It had already taken place a week ago. Were crazy tourists or just stupid foreigners? Our attempts to elicit empathy for having trusted the Romanian Ministry of Tourism only garnered us a few shrugs as if to say, “Yeah, those clowns in Bucureşti are out of touch and always get things wrong.”

It was the first moment of indecision. If the festival was over already, what are we doing here? Should we keep going farther into the remote village or head back for the highway. I thought we should at least continue a little further in order to see the city center and as we walked on the sun began to set.

It didn’t take too many more kilometers to reach the central area of the village. There, as promised, was the police station. There were also a couple of closed stored and what looked like it used to be a hotel.

I offered a solution to the predicament. “Let’s get a beer and talk about our options.”

Entering the first bar, all the chitchat of the locals came to a halt as they stared at us in wonder. We approached the bartender as she swallowed her cheeky grin. The umbrellas outside had advertised Haţegana and I was in the mood for another round.

But they didn’t have any Haţegana la halba, nor in sticla, or even PET (since I was depraved enough to ask). We left so the Tismana natives would feel comfortable talking once again.

No doubt they spent the next two hours speculating as to what we were doing there, where we might be from, and how much money we might have had.

Not too far away was another little bar. They might not have had Haţegana on tap, but they did have bottles. We parked ourselves.

One beer each was enough to let the sun disappear. With nowhere to go, I embraced the darkness by demanding a second round.

The owner (or owner’s wife) engaged us in a little local curiousity. She (and everyone) wanted to know what we were doing in Tismana, where did we come from, where were we going, and where were we planning to sleep.

Upon discovering our lackidaisical uncertainty, she admonished us for trusting the government for information about festivals and then mentioned that there was a monastery another 5 klicks down the road.

She didn’t know the price, but she felt certain they would have room for us. Plus, they had the only restaurant around for miles. The darkness turned into full nighttime.

We paid our bill, hit the restrooms, and stepped just outside the legal boundaries of the bar. Now, it was time to decide what was next…

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