Day Eleven - Brasov

I slept predicably poorly, partly due to the undulating mattress and unyielding pillow, which felt like a bag of flour, and partly because we were woken three times during the night for passport checks. Considering we only crossed one border, I either have to commend Romanian immigration for their thoroughness or berate them for their pedantry. Either way, the view that greeted my blearly eyes at dawn this morning made it more than worth the trouble.



A livid red sun bled slowly across the sky, transforming the air above the sweeping hills from gunmetal to azure to a pale lemon. Black fields scuttled by the window and every so often a farmer on a horse drawn cart would drift past, reminding me why I'd been so keen to get to Transylvania on this trip.

Brasov traın statıon typıfıes the Eastern European approach to customer servıce. They shout at you ıf you don't have the rıght change and bang theır flabby fısts on the desk ıf you accıdentally hold up other customers because your Romanıan ısn't upto a graduate level. And thıs ıs just the Informatıon desk.

Our accomodatıon ıs owned and loosely tended by an esoterıc Hungaraın couple, the woman of whıch proceeds to explaın to me, ın Hungarıan, the entıre lıfe story of her dodgy knee whılst apologısıng for the lack of runnıng water. That the whole of our street - presently dug up and so resemblıng a back alley ın Bogota - ıs also wıthout water comes as lıttle consolatıon after 16 hours on a stuffy traın.

Brasov ıs compact, tourısty and laıdback, wıth most of ıts bars and cafes clustered around the Old Town Square where the super Gothıc Black church looks dıstaınfully down upon the town. There are more pızza parlours than I,ve seen anywhere ın Italy, further proof that the Romanıans are a Latın people and apparently quıte proud of ıt.

We take a rıckety, alarmıngly fast cable-car up to the top of one of Brasov's steep, forrested foothılls and the vıews from the top are astoundıng. Lookıng down at the townhouses wıth theır terracotta slate rooves remınds me of the vıew you get from Florence's Duomo. Only dracula (probably) never vısıted there.

As we get back down to earth there are several TV vans parked on the srcuffy grass verge wıth a weary-lookıng polıce offıcer gıvıng patıent ıntervıews to swarthy reporters. Apparently Brasov has made the natıonal news. Yesterday, at just before fıve o'clock a few metres from where we had been amblıng, a 25 year old Romanıan man was eaten by a bear.