gypsy fighting

Like the ocean’s horizon, it was hard to tell where the clouds began and the frosty fields ended.  The world was white and frozen in ice, like any imagination in Heaven, everything bathed in white, but for the biting cold.  The train creaked and rattled as they moved along the tracks.  Pavlos was curled up in a fetal position on his bench, snoring loudly, though on occasion interrupted by a mumble or a twitch.  I watched the landscape pass and moved my feet away from the heater as I began to sweat.  Such old trains in Romania and the railway stations were even older.   All the concrete of the platforms had fallen to decay, huge cracks stretched across them like a Martian landscape, but for the dead sprigs of weed and flowers which had grown tall from the earth underneath.  

Our first stop was Deva, a small town about 4 hours by train from Cluj, though with how slowly that train tugged along, I wondered if it would have been less than half that time had we taken a car.  We walked through the town.  It looked like it was still under Socialist times and was almost the exact copy of what an old Socialist city must have looked during its peak period.  Pristine walkways extended on well kept block apartments, each block painted bright colors.  This was not a town in collapse, but rather one well maintained and kept.  People walked along the paths, busy going to friends’ and families’ houses for the holidays.  Two guys in black jackets walked up to us on either side, handing us flyers.  “Free English classes,” they said.

We kept walking on by, as was our normal reaction when randomly handed flyers.  Pavlos yelled back, “We don’t need it, we’re Americans!” 

“You’re not American.  You’re Canadian.”

“I’m North American.”

“North American scum,” I said, thinking of the song by LCD Soundsystem.   “And all the kids that want to make the scene, when our young kids get to read it in your magazines.  So where’s the love tonight?  But there’s no love man there’s no love and the kids are uptight.”  When we got to the city center, I remembered that Romania still had Peace Corps.  Though it was quite inexplicable why Romania still had Peace Corps, since the only thing 3^rd World about Romania was the train system.  “Those guys who gave us the flyers could have been from the Peace Corps!  I should have asked them.  Then we could have gone back to their host families’ houses and had some proper Romanian countryside experience.”  Though, in truth, I knew that Pavlos would have seduced the daughter and the father would chase us out of the city with a shotgun, all before we even got to see the castle. 

The castle in Deva was used in the opening scene of the movie Dragonheart and is still under restoration and archeological work.  There is an operating funicular that takes tourists up to the peak of the hill for easy access to the place.  But once up top, you can only walk along one of the battlements before your stopped by wood fences blocking off the dig site.   After our short walk around the base of the castle, we decided to head back down and make our way to Hunedoara, which is about a 20 minute bus ride from Deva. 

view of Deva castle

View of Deva castle

From Hunedoara station, the castle is about 20 minutes away by foot.  Hunedoara is a crumbling town, left over from long finished iron mines and smelters.  Huge heating stacks towered in the sky, casting long shadows even over the castle.  The castle was built because of the iron mines though, so the presence of the smelters made since from an economic perspective.  But now that the iron mines were gone and the smelters no longer used, and the castle having been renovated, it made everything awkwardly out of place, like if Disney had decided to build a castle in the middle of New York City.  Actually, come to think of it, that might be oddly fitting.  

After walking around the castle, we caught the train from Hunedoara to Simeria and then on to Cluj.  Across from the Simeria station, there was a small, beer only café.  The type of building was all over Georgia, where they served only beer and breads.  There was a Russian word that described that kind of place perfectly, that translates to “place you don’t really want to spend much time in because it’s dirty and disgusting and there’s a fat creepy guy in the corner staring at you”.  Russian is a rich language. 

The trains in Romania usually offer your own cabin (at least the more expensive ones).  This doesn’t mean that the train or conditions of the train are any better.  In fact, when you have your own cabin, the lights often don’t work and since it’s isolated, you can’t count on your neighbor’s cabin to light your way.  Our cabin was originally occupied by a large old lady and a man fast asleep who was sprawled across three chairs.  The steward brought us to a cabin only occupied by a small old lady.  We sat down and the old lady quickly stood up, collected her things and left. 

“Whatever, at least we have the place to ourselves.”  Which meant we pulled out the portable speakers and started jamming to Balkan gypsy music.  The music must have been like a chum, since almost immediately gypsies appeared on the train.  One child opened the door, holding his hand out.  One couldn’t tell if his skin was naturally dark or if it was that way because of the dirt, the hair in clumped knots on his head, sticking out in different directions.  He opened his mouth to show his missing teeth and look as cute as possible, though it’s not really that possible for a gypsy kid to look cute.  We couldn’t really tell if in fact, the child was a male, either, I’m just using it because it’s easier than saying “he/she” the entire time. 

“No, no money!” we said, shooing the boy possible girl off. 

Time passed.  I had to go to the restroom.  When I emerged, a whole family of gypsies were coming down the corridor, holding and dragging luggage that was probably filled with stolen goods.  I cursed myself.  “My God man!” I said in Russian.  The father came up to me and extended his hand, wanting a handshake and my watch while he asked for a cigarette.  I did a quick inventory of my goods and gave him a quick handshake – since I almost always automatically respond to handshakes – but made sure it wasn’t the same hand with my watch. 

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said in Russian, hoping that would make him go away. 

“Money?  You have money?” he said in English.

“No, no money,” I said in Russian. 

“Money?  Money?  I have little kids I must feed.”  The boy thing reappeared at my feet along with a little girl with tousled hair, dressed in an oversized pink night gown.  Another gypsy was in my way on my left, attempting to block the path with luggage.  They had me cornered and they were moving in, the kids reaching for my pants pockets and the adults reaching for my jacket pockets.  I had to make a move quick.  I remembered my tai chi and turned into a Kung Fu master.  With a ward off, I pushed my back hand into the rib cage of the guy blocking the corridor, sending him back against the wall.  Then with a crane-walking-the-sky, kept my hand in place, using it as a prop to vault over the luggage and spin around, facing the gypsies to make sure they didn’t sneak up on me.  I did another mental inventory as they were trapped now on the other side of the luggage. 

I harrumphed and returned to the compartment.  “You better put away your iPad man, those gypsies had their luggage, which means they’re about to jet.  Which means they’re going to make some slap and grabs at anything they can.”

“I’ll just punch any that come in,” Pavlos said. 

“It’s not so simple.  You punch one kid and another kid appears and grabs your eyepad.  They work the voodoo man.  Just best to put your stuff away and keep a hold on it.” 

The gypsies never came in.

When we got back, we went on to a couchsurfing party that Timea, the couchsurfer I had met for coffee a few days back, was holding.  It was a sausage fest, but it wasn’t too bad.  When everyone heard I played accordion, they gathered around and chanted for me to play it.  I brought it out but then Timea got excited, “No, you can’t play!  It’s midnight and I have neighbors!”  I put the accordion away. 

“But you can play in the street!” someone said. 

I was able to play two songs before my fingers were beginning to freeze.  I was also beginning to suspect that one of the neighbors was about to call the cops, if they hadn’t already.  “Let’s get back in.” 

Pavlos was leaving with an Italian man, for more party rocking.  “Pavlos,” I said to him before he left, “I’m off to Budapest tomorrow, just so you know.”

“I’ll see you there.  I’m going to hang out a bit longer and explore some more of Romania, I think.”  And with that, he and the Italian guy were off.