My long, difficult day of travel from Breb, Romania to Cluj-Napoca began when I hitched a ride with two Romanian-Americans who were making their annual visit to family. They dropped me at the train station in Baia-Mare, where I hoped to score a ticket with my first class Eurail Global Pass. With the exception of scattered chunks of plaster that had fallen off the walls, the circular waiting room was completely empty. I stepped up to the sole clerk standing behind an iron barred window and asked for a ticket to Cluj. My only option was a 3:30 p.m. train that would arrive at 8:30, a five hour ride for a drive that could be made in about 2.5 hours. The clerk muttered “autogare” (bus station) and pointed back the way I had come. I was learning what every Romanian has known for decades: in this part of the world, buses are often a much better option than the inconveniently scheduled trains.
With bus ticket finally in hand, I lugged my suitcase out to the bays to find my coach. Neither the bays nor my ticket were numbered and I saw no bus marquee with my destination, so I began querying everyone in sight by saying “Cluj-Napoca?” Finally, a young woman named Mikhaila, who spoke perfect English, came to my rescue. Since her elderly mother was taking the same bus, she showed me the correct bay and promised to stay around until we were both safely aboard. Curious, her mother asked my age. Mikhaila translated my answer: 61. Her mother’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she beamed and grabbed my hand. Her seat was directly in front of me and we spent the next couple of hours communicating with giggles and sign language. Too soon, she signaled that her stop was coming up. She gathered her things and took a few steps two toward the front of the bus, then turned and walked back to my seat. Leaning down, she planted kisses on both my cheeks and give my hand one last squeeze. She was still waving and blowing kisses as we pulled away.
An hour later the bus pulled up in front of the Cluj train station and I hopped out into 90 degree heat and worse humidity. I was exhausted but still had a mile to walk. Bedraggled and soaked in perspiration, I finally located my hostel, checked in, struggled up two flights of stairs with my luggage, and collapsed on the bed. And that’s where I probably would have stayed until morning…if I hadn’t been so hungry.
Matthias Corvinus Statue and Saint Michael’s Cathedral on Unirii Square
Groaning, I forced myself to shower, change clothes, and go in search of food. I didn’t have to look very far. Three blocks away, just beyond Unirii Square, with its burbling fountains and stately Saint Michael’s Cathedral, I found Boulevard Erolior (Heroes Boulevard), a quasi-pedestrian mall lined with shops and restaurants. The signboard touting gourmet coffee at Olivo Cafe caught my eye and I settled into an overstuffed leather banquette just inside the front door, where I could people-watch as I ate dinner. Continue reading