According to the Surgeon General’s Warning, it’s probably not in your best interest to be stuck in Tismana well after 21pm with little idea of where “here” is when you’ve got no place to stay.

So, when the locals appear unanimous in promoting the accommodations of the local monastery, you have to bite the bullet and see truth for what it is.

Conspiracy.

I can assure you, dear reader, as one who graduated summa cum laude from Paranoid State University that I know a Stephen King novel when it’s unfolding in front of my very eyes. Sinister locals spy the unsuspecting foreigner with his tender, juicy meat and they poison your Haţegana bere to dull your senses.

As night draws near, they begin to anticipate their fair chance to ensare you. Where will you be staying, O road weary and helplessly lost traveller? A moment’s hesitation on your part is all it takes for the trap to be sprung.

Take heart, my friend, the hooded priests at the dark, forboding monastery down the long, dark, winding dirt road are eager to extend their special brand of hospitality to the wayward stranger. And, around these parts, we know the unique food they serve is to die for.

Enter zombies, murmuring: Brains… Braaiinnsss…

I thought long and hard over the issue, mostly because I thought of you. Da, you. If I stayed the night in a monastery hidden amongst the sticks and weeds of remote Tismana, I should be able to walk away with some better stories to tell. Anticlimatic though it may be, it is true that I ultimately realized a need to stay on schedule for returning to Braşov to address some prior committments. Alas, you are left only to imagine what might have been.

Leaving the bar, we walked against the stream of teenagers and 20-somethings headed in the opposite direction to revel all night in the very bar we had just left. While it was quite dark along the unlit streets of Tismana, the locals could smell our difference, see the shape of our backpacks, and hear our flowing English as they stopped to stare at our passing.

Whut was they a-speakin’, Billy Ray? I reckon I dun properly know, Sally Mae, but it a-sounded kinna like thems jibberish ya hears on that there gol’dang ol’ telebishun thang when those ants a-stop their dancin’ on it.

I nibbled away on small bag of unshelled, roasted, and salted peanuts that I’d picked up along the way at some point from somewhere. Having not eaten, it was most welcome to share the gastrointestinal space along with the beer sloshing around inside. When the package was empty, I noticed there were no people out on the streets and could just start to see the highway ahead of us.

Once we made it to DN67D and crossed over the eastbound side, we thought of attempting negotiations with the two open roadside bar-ettes about the possibility of using the restroom. Either they didn’t have one or you’d have to buy a beer in order to use it. Besides, one door was blocked by a surly woman about 30 who looked as though she might snap your neck like a chicken.

Here it becomes an advantage to find oneself on a desolate little highway without lights in the pitch dark of night. One or both of you can simply do an end-around an abandoned railcar and initiate the visceral commune to become one with nature. Bark at the moon.

This particular stretch of road was not conducive to hitchhiking. At some point, there supposedly used to be a train station here, but it appeared to be long gone. There was almost no traffic. Definitely no lights by which one might read a sign. We opted to hoof it a couple kilometers to where a lone bulb could create our silhouette.

Upon reaching the corner of oblivion, a military/police authority in front of the official state building across the street from us (and the precious light) hollered to get our attention and find out what exactly we were doing there. As if he had caught a couple of spies or disaffected citizens trying to sneak across the border of the Iron Curtain, he simply could not believe we had walked to this very spot in order to hitchhike to Targu Jiu.

No amount of logic concerning the light and sign readability would dissuade him of his belief in the ludicrousness of our explanation. He had started out curious, but now somehow felt something was wrong with us — probably due to his defensive training background. Instead of getting into his car to drive home, as it had appeared he was starting to do when we first arrived, he began raising his voice louder in instructing us to turn back to Tismana.

Not suggesting, mind you, but insisting. He began to walk closer to us, his feet on the edge of the opposite side of the highway. We stood under the light with our thumbs out and sign held aloft. Only three or four cars, in total, had passed us the entire time we were walking along the road before. It seemed hopeless.

He probably thought we were ignoring him, like a couple of deranged hippies or something. I mean, really, hitchhikers? Here? At this time of night? His agitation grew and I was beginning to feel certain that he would assert some kind of authority to detain us, even if there was no real reason to do so. Mostly, he was agitated that we were not obeying his instructions to go back into town.

Just as things were about to come to a head, a miracle happened.

A shiny silver Dacia slammed on its brakes and jerked the wheel over, nearly killing us in the process of creating a nuclear bomb-sized dust cloud. Lemonmouse rushed over to secure our place in the vehicle, while I looked back at the shocked military/police guy and fought back my urge to gesture my exact feelings about him with a single digit.

I began to unstrap my heavy backpack as I approached the maşina. Lemonmouse looked at me then said matter-of-factly and without hesitation, “you are sitting up front.” So I put my bag in the back, opened the passenger door and sat down with a mulţumim mult. I turned to smile at our host, but my facial muscles refused to cooperate once I found myself I starring dead into the eyes of our naked driver.

Mind you, he may have been wearing a thong for all I know — I didn’t look down to verify. His thin, long chest was bare to the cold air of night and I had caught an inadvertant glimpse of his hairy legs. That was enough for me to keep my eyes on the road for most of the journey, lest I accidentally discover validation of my sixth sense.

The car itself seemed as though it were made of paper as it shuddered visibly from the force of the wind as he pummled the engine to its absolute maximum, the frame bobbing and weaving with each divot and crest of the uneven road we flew six inches above. He thought the concept of Campionatul Mondial de Bere was novel and readily agreed that Haţegana was a fantastic beer.

When questioned about life around Targu Jiu, he thought the economy was in bad shape with good jobs being hard to find. He felt that being a miner was pretty much the best possible source of income in the area, even if there were dangerous risks to such an occupation. However, he believed that in a few years time the economy might pick up and offer a better life to area residents in a distant future.

He asked if we were going to the train station or bus station and offered to take us to either. The raising of his eyebrows signalled his surprise at our claim that we intended to continue hitchhiking from Targu Jiu back to Ramnicu Valcea since it was now at least 23pm. We asked if he knew a decent place to get some fast food such as a pizza or kebap.

Here he could display his considerable skepticism and expertise about where an American might want to eat, should there be something halfway acceptable at this late hour on a Sunday. Ultimately, he decided not to take us to a joint with inexpensive fare. Instead, he drove directly to a restaurant he said was fantastic and dropped us out in front of a very busy terasa.

A couple handshakes and 5 RON later, he took off as we waved goodbye. Turning around to face the restaurant and noticing it seemed to cater to an upscale clientele of Romanian yuppies, I realized I was much hungrier than I had thought. Backpack and camouflaged shorts be damned, I was going to find an empty table in this establishment and git me sum grub…

This entry was posted on Friday, September 1st, 2006 at 8:16 pm and is filed under Living. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.