7 pm Monday, September 29
My head throbbed; God, it hurt.
Darkness—that’s all I saw until I blinked, focusing straight
ahead on the two headlights of my rental car, which were shining on the bark of
a tree.
Where was I? Something seemed wrong.
I needed to get out of the car… to figure out what had
happened, where I was, and find help.
The front windshield was splintered like a jagged
spider’s web, beads of water sliding around it, creating a Picasso effect on
anything viewed through it. A sharp breeze dragged across my face; I realized the
wind blew in through the driver’s side window. I hadn’t rolled it down. Had I?
Turning my head to check, I cringed at the shattered driver’s side window.
A crack of thunder
exploded sharpening my acuity and that’s when I felt wetness on top of my head.
It was frigid, flowing in through the open driver’s side window.
I squinted and
groaned, my body aching, as if bruised from head to toe.
My awareness faded in and out. I considered shaking my
head to clear the fog of confusion warping my brain, except the thought of
moving any part of my body seemed like a bad idea.
Remembering I wanted out of the car, I reached for the
seatbelt, intending to unbuckle it, but a knife-like pain ripped down my neck,
and I sucked air in through clenched teeth. It dulled and settled at the base
of my skull, thudding in time with my racing pulse. Trying again to unlatch the
seatbelt, I reached across my body, grunting, when a sensation as hot as fire
shot through me, but ignoring it, I unbuckled.
I pushed the airbag hanging deflated out of the steering
wheel, to the side, and put my shoulder against the door intending to open it.
It opened, and my legs tumbled out into the cold water. Wherever the water
touched, explosions of pain popped, as if a million tacks pierced my skin.
I lay on my side on the ground, rolled to my back, and
scooted away from the little VW, grunting through the pain in my back. When I was
far enough away that I could see the whole scene, I lifted onto my elbows, and
eyed the gray hunk of metal before me.
Even as it lay upside down, I could tell the hood looked
like an accordion. The middle of the roof bowed in, balancing on the ground
precariously like an awkward top. Two of the four tires that I could see, were
flat.
Another snap of thunder sent adrenaline coursing through
my veins, and the memories fell together forming a clearer picture of my
situation.
I’d had an accident.
I was in Romania…in the forest…at night—alone.
With that awareness, my eyes closed, and I saw only
darkness once again.
12 pm Monday, September 29
It had been twelve noon when I landed in
Cluj-Napoca, Romania. I’d left Maryland at three o’clock on Sunday and arrived
in Romania Monday afternoon. The modern world and its technology amazed me. You
could be anywhere in the world within almost twenty-four hours.
Two weeks ago, my boss came to me informing me I had to
take my vacation time, or lose the accrued days. Apparently, the office needed
a supervisor, or manager, on site at all times, and since the other supervisors
and managers had already either taken or scheduled their vacation days, that
left yours truly.
Thus began my search for cheap, simple, and interesting
destinations. The simple part meant I was going to ask the travel agent to
arrange most of it. The cheap part bit the dust the moment I decided to call
the travel agent.
Oh well, it’s only money, right?
But how I chose Romania, well, that came out of left
field.
My ex-boyfriend called me, asking me to go out. We’d
rehashed why I wouldn’t go out with him, which boiled down to he thought a once
a month booty call made for a good relationship, and I did not. After three
years being at his beck and call, I’d had enough. I was twenty-nine years old,
with no prospective husband, and no children—not that I was in a hurry to get
pregnant—this only fueled my mother’s belief that my eggs were going to dry up
on my thirtieth birthday.
Anyways, during the call with my ex, the vampire thing
came up.
“Well, we were going to go to Transylvania,” he’d said.
“We still could. Combine our resources, save some money.”
“Pete, I am not traveling with you. What the hell? We
never went on vacation when we were dating so why go on vacation now?”
“I don’t know, Kendra, we used to have fun. Thought we
could take some time and, I don’t know, see if we could start something again.”
“Christ, Pete.” I held my head. “You know, most guys just
shut themselves in the bathroom and jack-off when they get horny.” The man
didn’t want a relationship; he wanted sex, that’s all he’d ever wanted.
“What? No, that’s not—“
“Look let’s not do this. We were talking about my
vacation and somehow we got onto dating again.”
“Fine!” His voice turned hard and cold. “Why don’t you
just hop a plane to Transylvania and see if you can find fucking prince
charming there because a cold, dead guy is about the only one that could
stomach you.” He hung up. Just as well, because after that rant, I’d have hung
up on his ass.
So, I said, screw it, and called my travel agent asking
her to book me a trip to Transylvania. Yeah, I planned my vacation based on
defiance and spite. Stupid, but here I was.
Stepping off the airplane and onto stairs that led to the
tarmac, I got on a bus, which took us to the airport terminal.
Everything looked so…normal.
I don’t know what I expected—dark, moody clouds, with a
bit of mysterious fog hovering inches above the ground? Graveyards on every
corner? That’s not what I got.
The bus dropped all the passengers in front of the
airport. It looked like any undersized terminal. It was small and modern, even
had one screen in English, which made sense since many here were English-speaking
tourists.
I wandered with my mouth hanging open, as if I’d never
seen an airport before, until someone asked me something— in what I presumed to
be either Hungarian or Romanian.
And when I stared, dumbfounded at him, he smiled and
asked, “You speak English?”
My eyes widened. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m looking for the
rental cars.”
The older man, dressed in khakis, a shirt, and jacket,
held up his index finger and pointed as he gave me directions. His bushy, salt
and pepper brows rose and lowered as he spoke. I thanked him and lugged my
backpack in the direction he’d indicated.
I found the rental company and leased a VW Up for two
hundred U.S. dollars for nine days. Signing my life away, I paid the sales
clerk, and she handed me the key.
I put my bag in the backseat and slid behind the wheel of
the tiny, gray car. It felt no bigger than one of those Smart cars. But hey,
this was a vacation for one, and I had no passengers.
Good thing I packed light though, I thought, staring at
the compact interior.
Taking a few moments to acclimate myself to the car’s dials
and knobs, I found the lights, turn signal, etcetera, pulled my portable GPS
out of my bag, and turned it on. It took a moment to come to life, but then searched
for its position.
Giddy, I typed in the Pension Villa’s address, hit go,
and watched the technology point the way—Did I mention I love technology? The
familiar electronic female voice directed me left out of the parking lot, and I
drove east on Strada Traian.
On my way out of Cluj, an eclectic mix of ancient with
modern buildings shrunk in my rearview mirror. Two-story, plain houses, some in
disrepair, others newer and tidy, hugged the narrow streets. Cars that parked
on the curbs kept two tires on the road, while the other two tires rested on
pseudo sidewalks or small patches of sketchy grass.
Did they not have garages here? I wondered.
The colors of the houses and shops carried a more
whimsical flavor than I expected. Shades of bright yellow adorned one church I
passed in Cluj. The cheery yellow and spring green paint on the Chamber of
Commerce and Industry building seemed to contradict its architectural style.
With serious Gothic elements mixed with a sophisticated splash of Art Nouveau,
the frivolous, spring-like colors softened its otherwise stern character.
As I continued through the town, nearing the highway, a
distinct separation between the residential and urban areas here didn’t exist.
One moment, tiny, one-story homes sporting turquoise paint surrounded me, the
next, Cathedrals and shopping centers filled my view. My head twisted left and
then right, the sights changing. Homes were quaint, but mostly dilapidated.
Many of their exterior walls sported crumbling plaster, which exposed a more
durable stone beneath. And backed against the old residences a modern cafe with
neon signs proclaimed its presence. The scenery shifted in the blink of an eye.
I left Cluj and took the two-lane road, E81, a country
road that meandered through small towns and farms. At least to me it was. I don’t
know what the Romanians considered it, but it sure as hell wasn’t the D.C.
beltway. The roads here were…eye opening. They were smaller than I was used to
and in worse shape than those in the states.
A speed limit sign made me look twice. It said the limit was
fifty kilometers an hour. Well, that shocked the hell out of me. In the states,
that was about thirty-five miles per hour. I decided, I would get nowhere fast
in Romania.
However, when the
first car passed me, driving much faster than fifty kilometers, I rethought my
initial impression of Romania as slow.
The GPS screen noted it would take me four and half hours
to get to Pension Villa. That seemed optimistic at a mere thirty-five miles an
hour. Regardless, I would need to stop and eat, and the growl erupting from my
gut said my stomach agreed.
Alba Lulia was halfway to the pension—I
thought.
In my little VW Up, I took the exit for Alba Lulia and
searched for a restaurant.
The streets were hard to navigate; between the language
barrier, unfamiliar terrain, and many one-way streets, I was lost.
I pulled over and parked near what looked like a shopping
plaza. The buildings sat away from the street, and a sidewalk framed the
commercial district with bricks. Many newer shops were in this square where
pedestrians and shoppers were protected from motorists.
I followed the brick path, passed by two women carrying
shopping bags—a good sign, I thought.
But after walking for another fifteen minutes and finding
no restaurant, my stomach reminded how hungry it was.
Where in the hell was I going to eat?
These streets and buildings were too new for my GPS, so I
couldn’t rely on it for help. I walked another few blocks, but I gave up, and
spotted a woman bent down wiping off her daughter’s mouth.
I broke out my phrase book.
“Scuză -mă, restaurant?” I asked in horrible Romanian.
She smiled up at me, shielding her eyes from the late
afternoon sun and then stood to answer my question, in English.
If I walked another block and turned right, she said I’d
find a nice Italian cafe. I thanked her profusely, “Mulţumesc….”
She waved and took her daughter’s hand continuing down
the brick walkway.
Antik Pizza was in a Mall. Inside the mall, it was
bright, white, and crowded.
I found the Pizza place and then realized I’d have to order
in Romanian.
The smell of warm tomato sauce and baking crust made my
mouth water, and I flipped through my little book to find the translation for
pizza. Go figure, it was…pizza.
“Două felii de pizza?” I asked for two slices of pizza
and when the man behind the counter rattled off, what I presumed to be choices
for toppings on my pizza, I simply shook my head.
Hell, if I got sauce with no cheese, at this point, I
didn’t care. Just give me some food.
I shifted to my right and paid at the register with my
credit card, as I hadn’t gone to an ATM yet. Probably should do that before I
left the city.
The man who’d offered me topping choices handed me a
plate with two slices of cheese pizza. He smiled broadly, flashing white teeth,
and sparkling brown eyes. He nodded once, and as I grabbed the plate, he held
fast. I frowned and tilted my head. I let go, thinking I’d forgotten to do
something.
Mr. Smiley came out from behind the counter holding my
plate of pizza. He walked toward a table, grinning, and set the plate down. As
he pulled out a chair, he motioned for me to sit.
Is this how cooks treated patrons here?
I lowered myself into the wooden chair and murmured,
“Mulţumesc.”
He sat down across from me. Nodding toward the pizza, he
said something in Romanian. The pizza looked delicious and my stomach growled
again urging me to dig in.
I took a bite and then Mr. Smiley asked in broken
English, “You American?”
With a mouthful of cheesy pizza, I nodded.
“I holidayed in Florida. You know, Florida?”
Nodding, I finished chewing, and squeaked out, “Yep.”
“You like România?”
“It’s nice so far. I just got here a few hours ago.” I
took two more bites.
“Where you going?” He watched the pizza as I set it down
on my plate.
“Um,” I began, while I chewed and covered my mouth before
I continued, “South, toward Zărnesti.”
“No, I do not know that. Are you going to Castelul Bran?”
I wasn’t sure why he was talking to me, but he was cute,
with a cool accent, and seemed harmless enough
“Um, is Castle Bran, Dracula’s Castle?” I hadn’t planned
on it. It seemed too touristy for me. I wanted a historical and nature centered
vacation.
“No, that not Dracul’s castle.”
I paused with the pizza in front of my lips. “Not Vlad
Tepes’ castle?”
“No. Castelul Bran was never owned by the Prince of Wallachia.
Although, he was…how you say…kept in jail in the basement for a few months.”
The cashier hollered at Mr. Smiley. A customer waited to
order. He stood and gave me a quick nod saying, “Have good holiday. What is
your name?”
“I’m Kendra. What’s yours?”
“I am Sebastian. Nice to see you.”
“Yes. Good pizza.” I held up the half-eaten slice. And
Mr. Smiley…smiled.
Well, that was interesting.
I finished my lunch, tempted to peruse the mall, but got
back in my tiny VW Up instead.
Another
two hours and I’d be in the Carpathian Mountains.
