Reward

One Romanian leu or an Italian postcard to anyone who can make a moped look cool. Cute or classy are not acceptable substitutes. Bonus points if you can also manage imposing. In the latter event, I feel certain the Romanian police would appreciate your advice. Their moped officers failed to inspire the requisite fear and awe. And I can't count the number of times a cool-looking Italian guy has totally ruined his image by hopping on the back of his moped and puttering away. All anyone in this country ever seems to do is eat, shop, and drink. With all that disposable income, can't they afford a bit more cool?

Showing those Wiccans, racists, and gamblers who's boss

Prominently displayed in an internet cafe in Sighisoara, transylvanianist of Transylvanian towns and home of Vlad Tepes, otherwise known as Dracula:

"The Catacombs does not permit the visiting of sites containing explicit sexual material, games of chance and the occult or that promote discrimination. Clients breaking this rule will be asked to leave. Thank you for your understanding!"

Items found on Romania's most mystifying English menu

Chicken breast breast
Chicken breast calf
Garf saddle

In which we see Bucharest, get lost, get lost again, find ourselves homeless, and sweat. A lot.

I vowed we would not set foot in a taxi at any point during our trip. We would hoof it, take public transportation, or die trying. Which is how we found ourselves on an express bus crammed full of sweating Romanians, jockeying for elbow room the 18 km from the airport to the city. The bus started out full and got fuller at every stop. By the time we finally got off, I was bathed in sweat and fervently regretting the morning's wardrobe decision. We arrived at the hostel hot, tired, and grumpy.

The next morning, after a walk through what we were to discover was only one of Bucharest's many beautiful parks, we set out with all our luggage to find the next night's hostel (it was apparently a popular travel weekend). A quick bus ride took us to the metro, which took us to another park, where we would catch a final bus to the hostel. I consulted my directions and then steered us across the street so I could change my shoes

I felt pretty good. I knew where we were, I knew where we were going, and we hadn't gotten lost once. Flip-flops on and blister-inducing Chacos stowed away, I went to check the directions one more time. Directions which were now nowhere to be found. Frantic and thorough searching. Still no directions. Retracing of steps to where I last checked them. Still no directions. Shamefaced admission that missing piece of paper contained directions to every hostel we were staying at in Romania. Still no directions.

No matter. I remembered the bus number and I was certain I would recognize the stop and street names when I saw them. We boarded bus 104 and I watched as each stop was announced on the handy scrolling sign. I recognized none of them. When we reached a metro stop I knew something was wrong. There was no metro stop anywhere near the hostel.

We got off, and I consulted the world's worst map of Bucharest, courtesy of Let's Go. We had been on the right bus, just heading in the wrong direction. I took this opportunity to study the much larger map hanging at the metro station. I identified the correct stop, as well as the probable route to the hostel, based on what I remembered. I should note that the part of the city where we were headed is not actually on Let's Go's useless and poorly labeled map.

Back on the 104, this time in the right direction. When we reached our stop, I started to feel reassured. I found the street I remembered from the directions and we started down it, looking for the street the hostel was on. The neighborhood looked less promising with every block. The buildings were either empty, under construction, or only just met the definition of "building". I finally noticed that we were no longer on the right street. Retreat.

On the way back, walking down the other side of the street, I found a street sign that looked familiar. I had a vague recollection that the house number was 74. Sure enough, this street had a number 74. It would have been perfect, if only house number 74 had been a hostel and not some sort of ad agency. It also would have been nice if the surrounding houses had looked a bit more reputable and a bit less like semi-permanent gypsy camps.

My feet hurt. My back hurt. Alice looked like she was about to tip over from the weight of her top-heavy pack. And now it appeared that our hostel did not actually exist.

We walked around a bit more, giving the blisters time to really set in. After an only marginally refreshing lukewarm 7up, we found ourselves by a bus stop and I made an executive decision (something I had been doing the entire trip). We would take the bus to the train station (where I was pretty sure it was headed), where we would buy a phone card and call around to other hostels. Sure, they had almost all been full when I'd tried to book a room weeks ago, but something was bound to have opened up, right? And if that didn't work out, the train station would give us a central point from which to make new plans.

On the bus, we miraculously found seats, and by the time we were nearing the metro stop where all the confusion had begun a few hours earlier, the bus was even fairly empty, a rare occurrence on one of Bucharest's 122 (yes, 122) bus lines.

At this juncture, I should mention that at no point during the day had we actually purchased a bus ticket. It wasn't that we were cheap, it was just that we didn't know how. The hostel had run out and our attempt the previous day had resulted in magnetized tickets good for the express bus but useless on the other buses, which took little strips that looked something like generic raffle tickets. We were schwarzfahring, as they say in German.

So it's a good thing I was feeling particularly eagle-eyed, because I noticed right away when a man in a blue collared shirt with an electronic pad at his hip edged his way into the crowd waiting to board the bus by the middle door. I've never actually been controlled on an Austrian bus, but this guy had the look of a train conductor. Fortunately, we were sitting right by the back exit.

"Alice, we're getting off here," I said, grabbing her pack. As I sometimes make executive decisions without warning, she was prepared for this one. We hopped right off, and I like to think we didn't even look suspicious.

We had avoided getting controlled, but now we were lost, without housing, weighted down with luggage, and very sweaty. Naturally, Let's Go's map was no help at all. I steered us in the direction where I thought the train station should be and was relieved to discover a sign for the station but nonplussed when I realized it pointed to a street that positively could not be right, as it led right back where we'd come from. I paused to consult and subsequently curse Let's Go's map.

Plan B was to find a phone card and pay phone. The first part was easy; a nice woman at a nearby kiosk sold me one, but shook her head when I asked about a phone. In desperation, I asked after the train station and she pointed down the street. Not the street the sign pointed to, I'd like to add.

A block later we found a pay phone and the train tracks. I called the closest hostel and was informed that they did indeed have beds free and we could show up whenever we wanted. We hightailed it over, passing the train station and getting lost only once.

Checking in, the receptionist asked for our passports. When I pulled them out, the directions to the non-existent hostel fluttered to the ground. It's okay, we didn't really want to stay there anyway.

So it goes

"No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat's cradle is nothing but a bunch of X's between somebody's hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X's..."
"And?"
"No damn cat, and no damn cradle."

Here's to Kurt Vonnegut.

When in Slovenia...

When one lives in a rather provincial town in a somewhat provincial country, where prices are nonetheless incongruously inflated relative to the aforementioned provinciality, where does one go for a much-needed haircut?

Eastern Europe, of course.

More specifically, Slovenia. That’s right, I crossed international borders just for a haircut. In my defense, I made this trek solely because a friend was already going, and I figured I might as well keep her company and save a few euros at the same time. And hey, when else will I have the opportunity to get my hair cut in Slovenia?

2:15 My friend picks me up, twenty minutes late, as usual. She’s French and speaks almost no English, making German our lingua franca. In other words, she tells me long stories in German and I reply with broken sentences and half-finished ideas.

2:30 We stop at Burger King for lunch. I watch my friend polish off a double Whopper while I eat a kid’s meal. I take a moment to ponder the European perception that all Americans subsist on extra-large portions of fast food.

3:05 We finally hit the road. My friend explains that she thinks she remembers where to go. I begin to worry.

3:28 After my friend’s fourth rhetorical query concerning direction, followed by four seemingly arbitrary navigational decisions, I continue to worry. My friend calls her roommate for directions.

3:45 We reach a roundabout. One sign very clearly marks the way towards Slovenia. The other points to some sort of unidentified border. My friend follows the latter. I fight my natural tendency towards back-seat driving and keep my mouth shut.

3:53 After driving through rural Austria and half way up a mountain, we reach a border. Border control consists of a small hut and one very bored looking official. It occurs to me that while Slovenia is a small country, this is probably not the primary Slovene-Austrian border.

3:54 The bored official confirms that we have stumbled across a secondary border, intended for EU residents only. As I am not an EU resident, we turn around and head back towards the main road.

4:03 We return to the roundabout. As politely as I can, I point out the sign indicating the road to Slovenia.

4:08 We reach the Slovenian border. I have forgotten my passport. The Slovenian border guard is not inclined to take my Austrian residency permit in its place. I hand him my Georgia driver’s license. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. My friend bats her eyelashes and pleads in German. The border guard goes to consult with his Austrian counterpart.

4:09 The guard returns and tells us we can go through, but we must return through the same checkpoint by seven o’clock. We enter Slovenia.

4:18 We arrive. I have to be back in Austria by 7. After a few quick calculations, figuring in my friend’s poor navigational skills and apparent belief that punctuality is for suckers, I resign myself to being late.

4:21 The salon. Considerably less hip than anywhere I’ve gotten my hair cut in the states. I observe a girl with an unfortunately androgynous bowl cut running amuck in the waiting area. I fervently hope she got her hair cut somewhere else.

4:23 My friend and I consult with the man who appears to be running the show. In German, of course. At least it’s not Slovene. He asks if I want color. I look at the color samples hanging on the back wall and note that only about half of them have ever occurred in nature. I decline.

4:25 My friend tries to explain what color she wants her hair to be and how she wants it cut. I watch and begin to worry again.

4:36 The man in charge collects me from the waiting area and sends me to get my hair shampooed. Without asking me anything about how I want my hair cut first. I continue to worry.

4:41 Hair washed and looking bedraggled, I sit down in front of the mirror. I have found a picture of a model with a shoulder-length bob and I explain in my best German that I want a similar shape, only with slightly shorter bangs. The stylist seems to understand. I worry a little less.

4:55 Half way through the hair cut, the stylist asks me to stand up. Once I figure out what it is he wants me to do, I comply. He spends several minutes circling me, snipping bits of hair here and there. I cannot fathom why I need to be standing for this, and I spend the time unsuccessfully trying not to start worrying again.

5:01 I am losing an alarming amount of hair. The stylist seems unconcerned with the fact that I really had very little hair to begin with. I remember my unfortunate decade-long experiment with bangs, during which the cowlicks on either side of my forehead produced an astounding antigravity-effect. I am concerned.

5:06 The stylist collects approximately a dozen round hair brushes, none of which have been sterilized in the past several weeks. I wonder why he needs so many.

5:08 He needs so many because as he blow dries my hair, he periodically wraps some around a hair brush and affixes the brush to my head. At one point I find myself with two hair brushes stuck to my head and one at work.

5:15 Done. It’s not the best haircut I’ve ever had, but nor do I look like I grew up behind the Iron Curtain. I call it a victory and sit down to watch the progress on my friend’s hair.

5:23 My friend tries to explain her desired cut to a young woman whose German is about as good as mine. Now that I no longer have to worry about my own hair, I focus on worrying about my friend’s.

5:35 I alternate between watching my friend’s haircut anxiously and watching the clock anxiously. I calculate how long it will take us to get back to Austria. I add fifteen minutes for my friend to get lost. Then I add another fifteen minutes for her to be late. It does not look good.

5:44 The stylist begins to blow dry my friend’s hair. I watch in fascination as she employs more and more round hairbrushes in the process. I start counting the number of hair brushes stuck to my friend’s head.

5:47 The hair brush count tops out at eight attached to my friend’s head and one at work. I wonder how I ever managed to blow dry my hair with only one hair brush.

5:55 Finished. We pay up and leave. My friend wails that she looks like a poodle. “Zu viel Volum.” Privately, I think she looks about how she did when she went in, only a bit blonder.

6:15 Slovene-Austrian border. The Austrian guard looks askance at my lack of passport. We explain that we just popped over the border for a hair cut. The guard asks a bit huffily why we couldn’t get our hair cut in Austria. We seem to have offended his sense of national pride. We giggle and he lets us through.

6:16 My friend narrates all the times she has crossed international borders under dubious circumstances. I am especially concerned with her account of driving into Germany with a car full of drunk girls, not entirely sober herself. She explains that she told the border guard a pack of lies and he let her in no problem. I start to worry again.

6:38 Just when I think I may make it back to town on time, my friend informs me that she wants to stop and say hello to her roommate’s mother in a town about 40 kilometers outside the city. I re-resign myself to being late.

7:12 My friend drops me off at my destination, less late than anticipated, and speeds off, probably to talk another public official into bending the rules for her. At least she’ll have plenty of volume to aid in the hair-tossing and eyelash-batting.

And where did I need to be at 7 o’clock on a Tuesday night? The local Irish bar, for a bi-weekly poker tournament with a bunch of Austrians…

Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee...

Prague, city of Old World culture, meets a modern-day Davy Crockett. Only I find it unlikely that this guy killed him a bear when he was only three.