I had been rescued in Cluj on my way to Baciu by two of the kindest people you’ll ever meet in Romania. In their company, I’ve often felt as though I were something of an adopted son.

I first met Ördögi and Édesanya three years ago while a driving across all of Transylvania by myself, without knowing the language and carrying some relatively expensive (read: theft-worthy) camera gear.

While I wouldn’t necessarily recommend my cavalier stylings to every American during their first trip to a nation which outsiders sometimes derisively dismiss as a country of hackers and thieves, I must admit I had a total blast.

On my very first trip to Romania, I had picked up a rental car at the airport after battling with taxi drivers. I hit the highway and noticed all the scantily-clad, beautiful women lined up for hitch-hiking alongside the road.

Two seconds after pondering whether or not I should play hero to some damsel in distress, the realization of this activity I’d never seen before hit me with a big: Oh!

Not the big O, ladies.

I remember heading north straight toward Braşov on DN1 without a clue as to how to get there, being stuck behind slow semi-trucks stuck behind even slower Dacias packed with enough passengers to make an Indian train look empty, and watching the occassionally wreckless BMW go flying down the middle of the two-lane highway at a million miles an hour right between the moving tons of trucks on either side which moved over a few inches and blinked their headlights in rage.

Those of you who have ridden in my car before already know that I fancy myself something of an urban sport driving champion. The idea of high velocity zig-zagging in between other cars while you close your eyes, dig your fingers into my upholstery, and beg me to drive like a grandmother is something I enjoy.

But, you see, my friends, back Stateside things work a bit differently. In the US, I’d be switching lanes. One to the other. Darting in and out of openings as they shimmered into being. Yeehaw.

Here in Romania, it is quite an unfamiliar environment altogether. There are no lanes, per se. Just a single lane in each direction: these low-flying pilots were diving right down the middle of death, creating a rift in the sanity like Moses parting the Red Sea.

I was home.

The stamp in my passport was not even an hour old by the time I’d studied the seventh German-made missle to suddenly veer out from the orderly line behind me and barrel fearlessly through the oncoming traffic as though speedy arrival were more important than life itself.

The tension was built up within me as I pressed my head against the driver’s side window, yo-yoing my eyes between the the rear-view mirror of cars behind me, weaving side to side in search of a gap in traffic, and the behemoths ahead who would certainly crack for only the five seconds I would need to announce my intention to joust with the grim reaper.

And then I saw it. A fateful chink in the stream of tanks which shuddered my car in hurricane force winds as they blew past. I let off the gas a little to create a bit more ramping-up distance between me and the semi-truck in front of me, then dropped the car into a lower gear and slammed down the pedal to the floor.

My machine whinnied like a whipped mule and — a mere moment before smashing into the back of the diesel fuel trailer in front of me — I cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, thrusting myself directly over the center line.

One problem. I had rented a severely underpowered station wagon.

Defiantly gritting my teeth, I choked back the panic at the discovery of this fatal flaw and determined that I would at least die like a man. Behind me were two disbelievers frantically honking and flashing their headlights to indicate I was a fool who should get out of the way to let their faster cars whiz through the temporary vortex.

To the right of me was a string of semi-trucks, the nearest of which I could see the shocked face of the driver in his rear-view mirror as his flailing mouth furiously condemned me to hell for threatening the lives of everyone around.

Ahead of me was an army of metal machines whose leader was spastically waving an arm outside his window in the international language of, “Move back into your lane, idiot!”

Like some rediscovery of Judas, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the Bavarian driving machines were re-orienting themselves back onto the right side of the road where other northbound cars eagerly made room for them in the impending crisis each alert driver clearly saw.

There was no way I could overtake the semi-truck to my right. The looming death ahead was galloping at a breakneck pace and closing the distance.

What could I do? Drive.

I guided my plastic coffin toward the right as close I dared. The tie-down flaps of his cargo were literally slapping my tinker toy. And as he maneuvered his rig to the edge of the highway itself — rightside wheels kicking up rocks and dirt — I settled in snugly beside him.

The approaching semi-truck understood that I would continue my little game of chicken, so he also moved his eighteen-wheeler as far off the road as possible, sending dust and pebbles to attack the long line of trucks bringing up the rear.

I wanted desperately to close my eyes as the moment of impact came. I would be lying to you if I said my heart did not skip a beat. Everything unfolded in that sickening slow motion which stretches the time for each horrifying detail of the highway accident now taking place.

I was unable to close them.

They were wide open as I held my breath when the oncoming truck careened past me, just a few inches to my left while a few inches to my right was the other beast. Although the wind was shaking my frail little rental car, I fought the steering wheel to stay on course.

Fifteen centimeters on either side of me was certain fatality. It was a glorious rush and I was reminded of something I’d once seen in a movie.

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/gCDpl4wm7aQ" height="350" width="425" /]

I’ve loved the thrill of driving in Romania ever since.

Of course, on this occassion, the astute reader will remember that I had been hitchhiking rather than commanding four wheels of fury. I was in Baciu, a small suburban enclave best described as an “urban village” in my way of thinking.

It has all the characteristics of typical village life but just happens to be a few minutes from the major city of Cluj. The roads are all made of dirt, except for the main drag. People all seem to know one another and all about one another. There’s a reserved curiosity obvious in their eyes when they see you: the stranger.

Searching you with unspoken desires to mine all the details out of you, until you’re just another person they know the dirt on. Someone they can judge. Feel smugly superior to in some way. Backbite. Fortunately, I was the protected guest of locals.

From outward appearances, the husband is very polite and quite productive, but those who know him are familiar with his deeply mischievous alter ego. His gracious wife has the green thumb of Theophrastus, makes the best gulyás this side of Lake Balaton, and is remarkably intelligent on any number of subjects.

This was hardly the first time I had been a guest of Ördögi, palinka master extraordinare, and Édesanya, protectress of Romer!can. In fact, it is the normal protocol for me to engage in translated discussions with Édesanya to catch up on the recent goings-on as Ördögi positions himself for our regularly scheduled battles.

The epic wars we engage in are legendary. I’ve been pathetically intoxicated in their home, completely at their mercy, more times than I should publicly admit to. It seems part of the routine. Ördögi can usually best me, but I’ve slowly improved over time.

My first ever such victory was during a trip to Budapest where Ördögi just happened to be on business as well. Providence granted me the opportunity to garrison the redoubt in a battlefield other than his home and I was able to seize the advantage, late at night in a cellar bar in downtown Pest.

Once on neutral territory, I took the high-ground (reminiscent of Sun Tzu’s teachings, not Nicomachean Ethics) and plied my hapless victim with tantalizing descriptions of liquors he’d never tasted before. Before long, I was taking him around the world.

Ever had Jack Daniels? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Malibu Rum? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Tequila? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Sambuca? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Kahlua? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had…

Last thing I remember he was fighting to keep from passing out on a subway around 3am. I have no idea if he made it back to his hotel or not. I do know that it wasn’t me who had the 7:00 meeting in the morning.

If you think that’s bad, you should just allow yourself to imagine how often my arch-nememsis has had victory over me. Sometimes I’ve retreated gracefully, but he’s also completely routed and slaughtered me before as well.

Best believe payback is a bitch.

So I can strut my stuff in the daylight, I should boast about how I beat Ördögi in a duel on his own territory once. It was only once, mind you. It may have taken me two lazy days to recover from the fog, but I did survive. Meanwhile, the king of mischief was utterly dominated as proven by the 36 hours he spent sleeping which would be followed by yet another full day of recovery.

Let us all agree that Édesanya was not particularly pleased.

That was the past, of course. Recent, but past. On this particular visit, I’d been teased with something else altogether. Something about the corn fields up the hill. Something about a palinca tree. It wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a goading.

A dare. A double dare. A triple dog dare.

Was the wise and grizzled Ördögi poised to deliver a dish best served cold?

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 22nd, 2007 at 4:12 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.