Danube River Cruise with Muriel & Don

Email sent April 30, 2007

In view of my upcoming Danube cruise through five Eastern European countries, I decided I must have a few polite words or phrases in each language. I had no trouble locating lists of basic phrases for Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania on the Internet.

I copied these lists into my word-processing program. I deleted things I knew I didn’t want to try to memorize, such as I don’t speak good Croatian. That would be abundantly clear once I opened my mouth. I also axed Do you speak English? In the first place, the phrase involved endless unintelligible syllables and, in the second, I could inquire in English. If they understood me, asking in the language of the country would have been unnecessary.

As you would imagine, the languages of these countries don’t remotely resemble any language with which I ever have had the slightest acquaintanceship. The lists gave phonetic spelling. Most showed stressed syllables. However, I was left to guess how the words broke up into separate syllables. I did a rather eclectic, and not necessarily consistent, job of it.

Once I had a page for each country, I could see how most phrases in Croatian and Serbian were identical, or nearly so. I decided to make a separate chart, organizing all the definitions for a phrase together. It wasn’t as hard to do as I expected. I find it a remarkably helpful adjunct to my studying.

When that was done, I went back to the original sheets and redid them in larger type, triple spaced, and with words separated into syllables. I also ditched a couple more things. I don’t need to tell anyone good afternoon, and by time to say goodnight, I will be on the ship and talking to Muriel and Don Stauffer, who wouldn’t understand me anyway.

I am well aware that 1) memorizing these phrases will be difficult; 2) I rarely, if ever, will have opportunity to use my new language skills; and 3) there is no telling whether anyone over yonder will understand me, should I venture out with a careful phrase. I haven’t even mentioned the business of remembering which phrase goes with which country. Still, if I mix them up, there is a good chance that everyone in that part of the world is familiar with the languages of their neighbors. This is a make-work project, but I am having fun.

I concentrate on one language per day, starting in the afternoon and continuing to quiz myself during evening TV commercials. Once I was reasonably comfortable with what I presumed was the approximate pronunciation, I transferred attention to the pages with all the versions of each phrase listed together. I found, to my delight, that in addition to the consistence between Croatia and Serbia, many of their phrases are similar in Bulgarian. As for Hungarian and Romanian—they are strange, wonderful, and difficult. I live for the moment when suddenly these crazy phrases become automatic. However, if I completely fall on my face with this project, I still will be fluent in yes. It is the same in four of the five countries—dah, just like Russian.

Wednesday & Thursday, 30 & 31 May

A short flight to Houston, overnight in a familiar room in the Marriott, a long flight to Frankfurt, and a short finale to Budapest delivered me to the efficient arms of Vantage Tours.

Friday, 1 June – Budapest

A Vantage porter was waiting to snatch my two bags from the airport carousel. I was ushered up a walkway to meet the blond local guide. Another cruise passenger, Rufus Jarman, arrived on the same plane. The welcoming guide said we would wait ten minutes for the arrival of the Vienna flight and two more cruise passengers. In short order, Veronica and Edward emerged from the baggage area, and we all were bundled into a van to be taken to the hotel.

The four of us introduced ourselves and settled into excited conversation. Veronica, it developed, grew up in Hungary and still spoke the language. She chatted with the guide and driver.

 

My first impression of Budapest was that it was a normal large city with unreadable signs of strange assortments of letters, often in unreadable characters, on the shops. Graffiti decorated the bases of buildings. Looking upward, however, I saw the handsome, classical architecture of the upper stories and roofs. During our many drives through the city, we passed miles of three-story buildings decorated with statues, bas reliefs, arches, and pediments.

The city actually is composed of two towns—Buda on the hill and Pest on the plain. They were united in the late Eighteen Hundreds. The city dates back to Roman times. Like the other countries we visited, Hungary has a long history of being invaded and conquered. Its more recent history is closely linked with that of neighboring Austria. Nevertheless, Hungarians are a homogeneous society ethnically, with great national pride

During Soviet domination, Hungary managed to achieve a relatively relaxed and liberalized society. One popular saying at the time was, “We are socialists in the morning and capitalists in the afternoon.” Still, we were aware of their strong sense of relief with their open society after the restrictions of Communism.

 

After a relatively long drive, we arrived at the beautiful Corinthia Grand Hotel Royal and settled into our large, luxurious rooms.

I had time to hang up clothes from my wardrobe suitcase and open my roll-aboard before it was time to join the other members of the pre-tour group who were gathering in the lobby for an introductory walk around the area. For the first of many times I became lost in the endless, interwoven corridors of the hotel. Nevertheless, half of the group had not yet arrived from the airport, so the walk was delayed. I used the time to become acquainted with Sandor (pronounced SHAN-dor), our program director for Hungary.

I could have skipped the walk. It was designed to show group members the location of nearby restaurants and shops. I did not intend to go out that evening. The only thing of interest to me was a charming, narrow little park on the street parallel to the hotel.

 

Late in the afternoon a talk was scheduled by our program director on Hungary, Budapest, and our plans for the next day. I left my room and started the long, complicated walk to the elevators. I descended to the designated floor. The corridor led me to a balcony overlooking the lobby and the great staircase. I followed the hallway to a dead end of bedroom doors. I retraced my path. As I reached the balcony again, I saw Sandor waving at me from the top of the staircase. I continued around the other side of the balcony and finished at another dead end. Slightly frantic, I returned to wave helplessly to my distraught program director.

In intricate mime, Sandor directed me to take the elevator down to the lobby floor, cross the lobby, and take another elevator back up to the floor on which I was stranded. I took the elevator down, but felt far safer climbing the long stairway up to where I could see Sandor waiting.

I was not hungry after the excellent meals on my flight, so I forewent supper, put out the card ordering room service breakfast and set my new travel alarm for 5:30 am. I dived into the inviting bed under the first of a series of cozy duvets covering beds throughout the trip.

Saturday, 2 June

At some point while the room still was deeply dark, I heard a knocking on the door. Slowly I roused myself enough to go to it. A male voice said something I could not understand. I replied that I was not going to open my door to a stranger in the middle of the night. As I struggled back toward my bed, the telephone rang. I answered. An irate voice asked why I had refused my breakfast. I checked the time. It was 7:30 am. My alarm had failed me—or I had slept through its ring.

I let the waiter in when he returned with my breakfast, issuing repeated apologies that he probably did not understand. My tip may have made up for his trouble. I drank two cups of strong coffee as I dressed, but reluctantly left the basket of beautiful rolls untouched.

 

Somewhat to my own surprise, I was among the first to gather in the lobby for the drive to the village of Hollókő. Our group boarded a large, comfortable bus.

Once on the road, we passed miles to cultivated fields. Low hills folded together irregularly. Houses were little square stucco buildings with hip roofs, a few small windows, and pale neutral colors, occasionally shading to a surprising pale tangerine.

Farther on, heavy forests crowded each side of the curving road. Signs with pictures as well as the name of the village told us what community we were approaching.

Hollókő, in the Cserhát Hills, has a population of about 400. It was the first village in the world to be added to UNESCO’s World Heritage list. It burned down several times through the years but always was restored to its original charm.

 

We were led to a patio behind a small restaurant. Women in bright native costume served us light, crisp lemon pastries and jiggers of szilva, a clear schnapps-like brandy that was a shock to our systems early in the morning.

Sandor called and motioned me forward. The Hungarian women encircled me and herded me up onto a porch and into a dim room. I had no idea what was happening. Wordlessly, they made it clear that I was to disrobe. Shoes went, then shirt, then slacks. They motioned me to a chair and one of them knelt in front of me to roll heavy white stockings up over my knees. Clunky black shoes with straps over the instep were added and, magically, fit fairly well. A soft white blouse, with elaborate embroidery at neckline and around sleeve bands, was dropped over my head. Another of the women tied fastenings around my arms to puff the sleeves. A white, lace-bordered petticoat was whipped around my waist, its opening, surprisingly, in the front. Ties were wrapped around the back, crossed, then brought to the front, where they were tied in a bow. A second petticoat was added. A third petticoat covered the first two.

In my semi-dressed condition, I was marched out in front of my trip companions, to their great delight. A fourth petticoat came next, a white confection, heavily starched and pleated. A second starched, pleated petticoat covered it.

Finally, a red skirt with a beautifully woven pattern covered all.

A black embroidered apron came next. Then a thick, narrow stole was placed around my shoulders and crossed in the front. A soft blue, fringed, triangular stole was wrapped over my shoulders and fastened in front.

I thought that was the end. I felt like a stuffed sausage. Then one of the women grabbed a thick lock of hair at the front of my head, twisted it and secured it with a rubber band. The final glory, a highly inappropriate bridal headdress too elaborate to describe, was set squarely on my head and secured by a great pin through my topknot.

Cameras went wild. A friend took my camera and immortalized the brightly clad, plump figure I had become. About the time I thought I could escape my mute, determined Hungarian ladies, they grabbed me and whisked me into a sedate dance.

 

By the time I was released, undressed, and redressed, my tour group was ambling down the cobblestone street, enjoying the charming homes. Most houses had stone foundations then clay-and-stone main stories, stuccoed and fancily trimmed with wood. Scarlet geraniums bloomed in planters on every porch or along every fence. Only once did I see a lonely white flowering plant.

We stopped to see village women weaving their beautiful fabrics. We stooped at the low entrance of the doll museum, where hundreds of dolls in a colorful variety of regional costumes stared back at us from the glass cases that lined the walls.

We visited a tiny stone church. Each statue stood on a beautifully embroidered red cloth. Pews were upholstered in red. The altar cloth was discretely embroidered red hand-loomed material. It was simple and welcoming.

We were led along the entrance to one of the homes. Outbuildings could be seen behind it, indicating that the owners grew their own food. An enthusiastic, fawn-colored dog leaped against his pen in greeting.

Our group had been separated into manageable numbers of ten for lunch. We were seated at a long table in what obviously was the living room, judging by the couch pushed out of the way. We were served the traditional jigger of high-octane “schnapps.” The typical Hungarian midday meal involved soup (chicken, noodles, carrots, hot peppers) followed by a main course of spaetzle and tender chicken with paprika sauce. Wine glasses were refilled as quickly as they were emptied.

Our host warned, “If you spill any of the sauce on your clothes, the only remedy is scissors.”

Dessert was light puff-pastry tarts filled with apple or cherries.

My departing viszontlátásra köszönöm (goodbye, thank you in Hungarian) surprised and delighted our hosts.

I was among the first to leave the house. I joined a group of four men who were standing just below the front steps. They were discussing age. I claimed that I was older than any of them. A large gentleman named Lee told me not to brag, that he was a year older. He was delighted when I replied (truthfully) that when we met the day before I thought he was one of the younger members of the group.

The dog pen drew me like a magnet. Sandor had assured us that the Vizsla, a traditional Hungarian hunting breed, was very friendly. I petted him tentatively through the mesh. He was ecstatic. I reached over the top of the pen to stroke his head. He reached up and took my entire hand in his mouth, gently as a feather. It was a happy moment for us both.

 

We returned to our hotel. From the outside, I could see that it was an immense building, encompassing three full blocks, restored to turn-of-the-century elegance. It was here that I established my reputation for being late to gatherings because I repeatedly became lost in the (understandable) maze of halls when searching for the elevators.

I arrived late for the lecture about Hungary and our plans for the next day. Most of the group left to find nearby restaurants for dinner. I returned to my room. To my delight, my breakfast tray had not been removed. I feasted on leftover rolls, packed for an early departure, and went to bed early.

Sunday, 3 June

Not trusting my travel alarm, I left a wake-up call for the morning. My suitcases were outside my door at the appointed moment so Vantage could collect luggage to be taken to the MS River Odyssey. For the first time, I managed to make the correct turns in adjacent corridors and reached the lobby on time.

In the lobby I again met the group of men with whom I had visited in Hollókő. They greeted me like a long-lost companion. This was the beginning of pleasant friendships, characterized by brief passings and frequent few words. Muriel, Don, and I called them “Kate’s Gentlemen.”

 

The bus was waiting to take us to a nearby village whose name I neither understood nor wrote down. (Note: I looked it up and know why: Szentendre—translation, St. Andrews.) It was a charming town of narrow, winding streets and gated homes. A blend of cultures through the years made interesting architecture.

We started on a brisk walk over cobblestones through the shop area. Nadia had joined Sandor as guide for Hungary. She told us firmly to stay together until we reached the town square. After that, we would have free time to shop.

I had every intention of obeying orders. However, we passed something I absolutely “had to” buy, sure I never again would see its like. I peeled off from the group, quickly spoke to the saleswoman who was standing at her door, was delayed deciding whether I wanted Hungarian or English writing, and finally turned back to the street with my purchase. Sandor was waiting for me with a not-unpleasant look of tried patience. We took off up the street as quickly as I considered it safe to walk and met our group and a disapproving Nadia around a far corner in the main square.

Bonnie and Russ Lambing, two of my new friends, took me in hand, suggesting we have lunch together. We bypassed the recommended sandwich shop because it had long lines and no seating.

Instead, we climbed the adjacent cobbled path and worn stone stairs to the patio above. From the low encircling walls, we had beautiful views of the city on one side and the Danube beyond red roofs on the other.

We took the requisite photographs, then descended to the square. We decided on a restaurant already being patronized by some of our group. As we looked for an outdoor table, the first raindrops fell. Russ told the hovering waiter that we would eat indoors. We were standing next to Rufus’s table, so suggested that he pick up his things and join us. By the time Bonnie and I were inside the restaurant, Russ had collected several others, so the waiter pushed a few tables together to accommodate the ever-increasing crowd of a dozen, all of whom were delighted to be offered shelter. Orders were mostly rich Hungarian beer and sandwiches, plate-size, thick slices of coarse bread with sliced tomatoes or meat, covered with melted cheese.

 

I left Bonnie and Russ as we strolled back along the street, stopping to browse on the way back to the bus. A shop full of lovely linens attracted me. The owner, a charming Australian woman, sold me two items, noted the “Belize” on my name-tag, then initiated conversation. We exchanged tales of how we each came to live so far from home. As the bus deadline approached, I made my excuses and hurried down the street.

Nadia was frowning at the bus door when I reached it. However, both my watch and the waiting passengers assured me that I was five minutes early.

We drove to the River Odyssey and boarded. The process of submitting passports and receiving room keys was swift and efficient. I was led down two short, curving flights of carpeted stairs to my passageway. My cabin, 303, was near the end. Inside, my suitcases awaited me.

A model-tall-and-slim blond stewardess hurried forward to help me. She pointed out all the features of my cabin. On each side was a padded seat, the back of which opened down into a twin-size bunk. At my request, Niki left my bunk down and brought me an extra pillow and blanket.

I had just begun to unpack when Muriel knocked on my door. We had a quick hug, then went to their cabin, directly across the passageway, so I could greet Don. We separated to continue settling in. At 6:00 pm, we gathered in the Stauffer’s cabin for a proper Happy Hour reunion. We all were enthusiastic about the cruise and delighted to be traveling together again.

Monday, 4 June

I mis-set my travel alarm, overslept, and missed breakfast. Later examination showed that, by some unfathomable quirk, the little clock was operating on 24-hour time.

The morning began with a scenic bus tour of Budapest, finally stopping at the magnificent, neo-Gothic Parliament building. Muriel and Don began their schedule of avoiding extended walking and stairs. Throughout the trip, they found pleasant park benches and handy watering holes that offered glasses of wine, where they could wait while the rest of us exhausted ourselves.

The Parliament building was superb—elaborate design and tons of gold leaf, but in perfect taste. The wide main staircase, carpeted in rich red, rose exactly 94 steps to commemorate something I forgot instantly. Two vast wings, mirror images, stretched out from the main building, one designed for the House, one for the Senate, when the legislature was bicameral. Now the country has a unicameral legislature and the Senate wing is unused.

The local guide pointed to a strange, scalloped brass fitting on a windowsill outside the legislative chamber. One of our group correctly identified it as a cigar holder. The guide said that the legislators would stroll into the wide corridor for a smoke, then quickly perch their cigars in one of the grooves when business called them back inside.

 

We returned to the ship. Muriel, Don, and I adjourned to the Latitude 52 Lounge for a pre-lunch drink. The barmaid routed us out, explaining that it was one of the seated (not buffet) lunches and that we had lost much of the half an hour allotted for passengers to reach the Compass Rose Restaurant.

At 4:00 that afternoon we returned to the lounge for the performance of the Black Danube Orchestra. The excellent chamber musicians were joined by a fine tenor from the opera company. They put on a first-class performance.

At dinner we sat with Bobbie and Jerry Soberaij and their in-law, Don Zeller, not realizing that they would become our closest companions for the cruise.

 

Don, Muriel, and I decided to celebrate our reunion and our first night aboard the River Odyssey with an after-dinner drink in the lounge. The ship was due to sail at 10:00 pm. I decided that it already was so close to that time that I would go topside and enjoy our departure. Muriel and Don preferred to return to their cabin.

Budapest at night was spectacular. Lights outlined the graceful arcs of its seven bridges. On each bank, one Baroque building after another gleamed in floodlighting. Our dinner companions were seated at a table on deck. They called for me to join them. We all were too busy sightseeing to remain sitting. Naturally it had not occurred to me to take my camera. Fortunately Don Zeller had his and spent the entire hour snapping this side and that.

Tuesday, 5 June – Kalocsa, Hungary

Our bus took us northward to the Puszta, the remains of the Great Plain that once covered more than half of Hungary. Arriving at a horse farm, we were directed to a covered stadium. Simply clad girls offered us pastries and the inevitable jiggers of szilva as we seated ourselves for the riding show.

The slow circuit of a hundred-year-old wagon drawn by yoked oxen started the show. Next, five horsemen in voluminous blue outfits circled the vast ring, the cracking of their long whips so well synchronized that they sounded like one great gunshot. Tailing along behind them was a similarly dressed “clown” on a donkey. He aped their tricks, cutting across the vast ring to save time for his tiny beast while the horsemen galloped around it.

The riders performed a number of riding feats, including having their mounts lie flat on the ground while they stood on top of them, cracking their great whips. The horsemen raced around the ring at top speed, moved into position abreast, and pounded forward toward the stands, pulling to a halt side-by-side an inch before the fence.

In competition, each rider raced toward a small wooden piece balanced on a short column, trying to knock it off with his whip as he roared past. At the end of the tourney, the rider on his donkey plucked the piece off its stand and waved it triumphantly as if he had performed as skillfully as his companions.

Next, a carriage with three beautifully matched horses did a series of complicated passes and circles in front of us. As the carriage exited, five great dappled-gray horses galloped in, guided by a bareback rider balanced on the last two horses, one foot on the back of each. He put them through a series of difficult moves, then pulled up in front of the stands. The three lead horses danced, obviously wanting to continue. The rider balanced incredibly well on his two horses as he brought them back under control.

At the end of the show, we all were loaded into great, heavy, covered wagons and driven over a muddy, roughly rutted track out to a nearby pasture. Cattle grazed on one side of a fence. Dozens of horses grazed peacefully around us as we dismounted. Refreshments were offered in a nearby semi-enclosure. I felt that another schnapps was contraindicated. A grazing horse strayed into the enclosure. One of the blue-clad horsemen rode in and herded him out.

The wagons returned for us and we were taken back to our buses. At a local restaurant, we were seated at long tables for a delicious, typical lunch.

 

During our absence, the ship moved to Mohács for Customs clearance. Passengers were told not to leave the ship in case the officials called for a face check. They didn’t.

That evening passengers dressed in their best for the Captain’s welcoming cocktail party and dinner.

Wednesday, 6 June – Vukovar, Croatia

We passed through rich agricultural country with extensive fields of corn, wheat, potatoes, sugar beets, and the rape whose seeds were used to make canola oil.

Driving through the town gave us a heartbreaking understanding of the hideous damage done by the Serbs and Yugoslav Partisans in the not-so-long-ago war. Rubble, derelict, half-destroyed buildings, walls stippled with bullet holes and with great swatches of plaster stripped by shrapnel. Allegedly, Vukovar was 99% destroyed. Much of it has been rebuilt. The government coped with one of its most pressing problems by building hundreds of small concrete boxes of houses, 900 square feet, to resettle families as quickly as possible.

 

We drove on to Osijek for another one of our delightful home-hosted lunches. A slim young girl, not one of the family, but the translator, greeted us. The home was a substantial one, adjacent to a small farm, which, we learned, grew all sorts of vegetables, wheat, etc., and raised chickens and pigs. Two tiny dogs added to our welcome, the younger one dashing up for her share of petting when the older dog was given attention.

At table we received the traditional small measure of schnapps. No wine glasses. A glass pitcher of red liquid and one of almost colorless liquid appeared instead. The red was cherry juice—cherries abounded throughout the area—and what I suspect was pear juice, quite awfully insipid.

The soup was a rich vegetable mixture with dumplings. Next came platters of deep-fried meat (a well seasoned cross between hamburger and meatloaf) arranged on each side of a great long mound of mashed potato. Slaw with a delicious light dressing was passed and admired. To everyone’s delight, wine glasses appeared along with small pitchers of homemade red wine. As the pitchers emptied, larger pitchers of wine replaced them. The hosts offered two desserts: squares of cake studded with cut-up cherries, and slices of pastry rolled around a chocolate filling.

Our hosts spoke no English—a sturdy, brunet husband and a quietly pretty wife. At the end of the meal a chubby preteen daughter and gangly older boy arrived to say hello. They both were learning English—compulsory in school—but were too shy to speak. The baby of the family slept throughout our visit.

Despite language problems, we were impressed by the friendliness of picturesque Croatia. It was apparent that, since the country’s escape from the cocoon of Communism, there had been a rebirth of native independence of spirit in an atmosphere of hope.

 

Back aboard the River Odyssey that afternoon, a Croatian Tambura Band enthralled us. The five musicians wore full shirts, black vests and trousers. Their tamburas were similar instruments of varying sizes, from a tiny miniature guitar to a bass. Their music was vigorous and happy. Much of the time the men sang in harmony. In the middle of their program they urged passengers to join them singing the choruses of old favorites such as Oh, Susannah and Home on the Range.

One of the passengers asked the guide to relay word that he was from Croatia and requested a certain old folk song. The band, obviously delighted, played and sang it directly toward him.

Croatia and neighboring Serbia have complicated histories, replete with foreign invasions and a series of conquerors that ruled their countries, often for hundreds of years. Antipathy between Croatia and Serbia remains strong. We heard one version of recent history from the first then, next day, a conflicting history from the second.

Thursday, 7 June – Novi Sad, Serbia

When I opened my curtains on waking, I saw that we were moored at the official port, alongside a high, slanted stone retaining wall, at the top of which was a wide walkway set with old-fashioned wrought-iron benches. A large apartment building faced the street above. When we turned in our room keys at the reception desk and were given our boarding passes and receivers, we also were given our passports. We were told to keep them with us while in Serbia in case we were stopped and asked for identification. We never were.

To get ashore, we crossed a deck whose railings and walkways were colorfully decorated with planters of geraniums. The walk to the bus was long, much of it uphill and all of it cobbled. Muriel and Don stopped to rest halfway along. I was afraid they might decide not to come on the tour, but they reached the bus before its departure.

It is time to discuss Eastern European cobblestones. They were unlike the rounded ones I remembered from Western Europe and Mexico. For the most part, they were small, flat stones about three inches square, laid in straight lines or in graceful, intersecting arcs. Sometimes the cobblestones were larger. Sometimes streets or sidewalks were laid with flagstones. The crucial word is “flat.” Walking was not as treacherous as I had feared.

 

Centuries ago, the often-displaced Serbs asked Austrian Queen Maria Therese to let them form a country in the area they had settled after finding refuge from the Turks (Ottoman Empire). She agreed, with one proviso, that they plant trees in the swamp and build a fort to forestall future invasions. We walked around the fort, which never needed to be used for its intended purpose.

Novi Sad was destroyed in the 1800’s and rebuilt in the early 1900’s in a mixture of Austrian and Serbian styles, relatively clean and simple, with some balconies. It is a multicultural town. Signs on government buildings display four different languages.

More than once we heard disparaging comments about NATO. Serbs have not forgotten that during the war following the dissolution of Yugoslavia, NATO blew up all three of Novi Sad’s main Danube bridges.

The area is one of Serbia’s most fertile agricultural regions. The plain surrounding the town once was a sea. Two meters down, seashells still can be found. We were told that Serbia has the potential to feed a quarter of Europe

FYI: Tennis champion Monica Seles was born in Novi Sad.

 

The evening’s entertainment aboard ship was a version of The Liars’ Club. Our friend Bobbie was one of the panel. She performed delightfully. Passengers formed groups of five for the game. Rufus joined us, as did Chris, another single man whom we had not known earlier. To our delighted amazement, we were the winners. The prize was a bottle of wine. We agreed to meet next day for lunch and enjoy it.

Friday, 8 June – Belgrade, Serbia

During his introduction to Belgrade on the bus tour, our program director made a point of explaining to us that the Serbian government was not involved in the assassination that started World War I.

In addition to more details about Serbian history than I can or want to recount, he said that WWII Nazism and a strong Muslim influence were responsible for Croatia’s problems. He added that Serbia had recovered from a very weak and impoverished condition to reemerge as a stable democracy, once its communist dictator Milošević was arrested by NATO. Even so, Bulgaria no longer qualifies for its old tongue-in-cheek description as “the forgotten corner of Europe.”

Belgrade, a hilly border city, was the most important bastion for many regimes through the ages. It was virtually destroyed at the turn of the century so most buildings are neo-Classical Modern.

I decided against the city walk and went into a park across from the bus stop with Muriel and Don. With his usual unerring guidance system, Don found a pleasant outdoor café for my morning beer and their white wine.

Our guide Marius (as usual) mis-estimated the time when the bus would return. We perched on a concrete windowsill next to the bus stop and waited. To our amazement, a small sedan made a right-angle turn off the busy main street, mounted the curb, and turned to park not far from us on the wide sidewalk.

Our group returned to the bus and we took off for an endless drive through Belgrade.

 

Months earlier when we signed up for our cruise, the afternoon tour was listed as a visit to a nearby village. Later we were notified that it had been cancelled in favor of a visit to Tito’s tomb. While none of us was pleased, I remembered reading of some sort of disturbance in a rural part of Serbia. Nothing serious, but enough to spark caution in Vantage.

We would have been happier remaining on the River Odyssey. Tito’s “House of Flowers” is in a park that has been allowed to deteriorate because of public mixed feelings about the former Yugoslav chief. We climbed endless steps to a semi-circular patio with a fountain surrounded by the only flowers we saw. Inside the adjacent building, Tito’s tomb is a simple marble block with his name and dates inset in gold. A second long building houses a museum for some of the many gifts of costumes, arms, saddles, etc., that the dictator received from all over the world.

I photographed the patio and tomb for Muriel and Don, who were not able to negotiate the steep climb.

Tito walked a careful tightrope. After WWII, he incorporated the Partisans into his army, ending with a force of 800,000. When Stalin tried to take Yugoslavia into the Soviet Union, Tito had enough forces to say “no” and get away with it. Less well defended countries were not as lucky.

We heard an amusing story about the Serbian flag. Prince Michelov proposed adopting the Russian flag with an added Serbian crest. Strong public complaint. The Prince turned the flag upside down, added the Serbian Coat-of-Arms, and said, “There!”

 

That evening after dinner, the Serbian Folkloric group “Talija” entertained us in the lounge. Native costumes were colorful; the dance, sometimes delicate, sometime vigorous. Fascinating.

When we retired that night, a note on our bunks declared:

East Europe Time Is Here. Do not forget to change your clocks tonight, One Hour Ahead.

Saturday, 9 June

After several days of suffering more-or-less in silence, Muriel and Don complained to the receptionist that the air conditioning in their cabin did not work. The chief engineer examined it and announced that a part was needed but could not be obtained on the weekend.

I offered to trade cabins. Moving would be a hassle for all of us, but the cabins being directly across the passageway from each other, would not have been difficult. They declined.

The Stauffers were offered a cabin on the lowest deck. Muriel baulked; the water line was halfway up the window. Furthermore, it would have meant moving the ship’s doctor out of his cabin and into theirs. They assumed that their air conditioning would be corrected on Monday.

When they reentered their cabin later in the day, they found a bottle of wine and note of apology from Vantage.

 

This was our only full day of sailing. It provided the most spectacular scenery of the Danube cruise. On waking, I opened my curtains to see that the ship was passing close to a vertical wall of mountainous forest broken by slashes of gleaming, white limestone.

After breakfast, passengers began crowding the upper deck. In recognition of the cool air and strong wind, I wrapped myself in my coat and an awkwardly tied headscarf. Outfitted with dark glasses, camera, and notebook, I settled down for the transit of the famous Danube Gorge. Sheer rock walls brilliantly reflected the morning sun. Mountains dovetailed in the river ahead of us.

We passed a quarry where rock was being blasted loose and crushed for shipment in waiting barges. To starboard a long, semi-stripped expanse of rock displayed the area’s geological history to knowledgeable eyes. In one outcrop the graceful, multicolored curves of either a syncline or an anticline made me wish I remembered more from the geology class I enjoyed almost seventy years earlier. Striation taunted me. A wide band of red rock, effectively shot with two narrow bands of white, ran from one exposed surface to the next several, disappearing again and again under the intervening mantles of trees and bushes.

As we continued down the Danube, the dramatic mountains of the gorge were replaced by lumpy, wooded hills. An occasional narrow bridge spanned a tiny inlet. Gradually the river narrowed. A wall of granite formed the Serbian side of the river. A great face was carved into the stone above a narrow bridge. Across the river a dense, green forest clad the Romanian side.

A small, elaborately spired monastery cantilevered out over the river. The usual three domes of an Orthodox Church and the vari-sized parts of the building looked like a tidy heap of white blocks.

 

Above the locks, the Danube opened out lake-like. A small cluster of white buildings with red roofs hugged the shore. Here and there, expanses of cultivated fields clung to the hills.

We reached Iron Gate I. The River Odyssey eased into position alongside one wall of the locks, so close it was incredible that its paint survived. We watched the water level creep downward to about eighteen meters. It was still lowering as we were called to lunch. Passengers were infuriated at the poor timing. Through the dining room windows we saw the ship move and realized that we had missed the ship’s moving into a second, adjacent lock to be lowered to the level of the Danube beyond.

When we returned to the upper deck, we were passing an area of low hills with dear little villages of trim white houses with the traditional red roofs perched here and there along the banks of the river on flat hills overlooking pastures where their black and white cattle grazed.

Later that afternoon, we entered Iron Gate II. This time passengers were able to enjoy the entire process of the ship’s being lowered and reemerging through great iron-and-wood gates to proceed on the cruise.

Sunday 10, June – Svishtov, Bulgaria

We moored during breakfast. Our tour buses left early for a full day’s tour. From the beginning, Bulgaria appeared far less developed than the countries already visited. Roads were rough. Even the woods boarding the road seemed ragged and untamed.

We passed farmhouses with small, cultivated patches or orchards behind them. Occasionally we saw a cart, sometimes a car, pulled by a horse or donkey. Once we passed a huge nest on a telephone pole. A mother stork was feeding her three fledglings. Small pastures held a few sheep or cows. Often fields were hidden from the road by a narrow band of untidy bushes and trees. Fields were cultivated by hoe, usually by two or three women. Sometimes a man was seen with a horse-drawn plough. Very occasionally we saw a small tractor of undetermined age standing idle in a field.

Like its neighbors, Bulgaria had centuries of history as the victim of a succession of conquerors. To the dismay of most Americans, it joined Germany in World War II. At the war’s end they spent fifty happy years as Communists. A popular saying among pro-democrats at the time was, “Everyone in the whole world knows that Communism is no good except us.” Bulgaria joined NATO in 2004 and expects to join the European Union this year. Still, much of the populace is unhappy about the political change, especially in the area of health care, which no longer is free.

Bulgaria has a large gypsy population. The usually peripatetic groups settle in the friendly countryside, assume the predominant religion, and live their own way.

 

The Bulgarian language is Slavic. It is so close to Russian that the two peoples can understand each other. I noticed that our local guides from all of these Eastern European countries (not just Bulgaria) inserted a “k” sound after English words ending in “ing” or after “in” in the middle of a word, just as Russians tend to do. This was especially noticeable in the speech of our program director, Marius, a Romanian.

Passengers, although they did not speak the language, were warned about one Bulgarian peculiarity. Bulgarian gestures for yes and no are the reverse of ours. Shaking the head from side to side signals yes. Nodding up and down means no. I suspect that all of us forgot those instructions by the time we were interacting with Bulgarians in the shops.

 

Veliko Tarnovo probably was my favorite village of the trip. It nestles in the foothills of the Balkan Mountains, small houses clinging precariously to the rising cliffs. We browsed through shops along the curving, cobbled street. Small workshops displayed ancient arts of woodcarving, pottery, and embroidery. As we drove out of the city, we saw that buildings beyond the street of shops had peeling plaster and dingy paint.

We continued toward Arbanasi. Cultivated fields stretched as far as one could see toward mesas rising flat-topped behind them. Corn was one- to two-feet high; wheat, about the same. Fields were outlined and divided by narrow bands of trees, thick and long. Farmers cultivated small vineyards in their side yards to make their own wine.

A flock of ducks grazed happily on a grassy plot alongside the road. Horses, cows, and sheep chomped busily in unfenced pastures along a major highway. A shepherd herded his flock along a railroad bridge.

High on a plateau, Arbanasi is one of Bulgaria’s most picturesque villages. Houses resemble small fortresses with high brick walls, massive wooden doors, and (allegedly) secret hiding places.

We stopped at a local restaurant for a regional lunch. Huge salads, a full meal in themselves, greeted us when we sat down at long tables. A subtly seasoned chicken-and-vegetable stew was served in individual brown pottery jugs, to be ladled out onto our plates. Dessert was an unfamiliar but delicious version of baklava.

 

We visited a 400-year-old Orthodox Christian church, famous throughout the region. The small stone church was covered, inside and out, with frescos.

We were ushered inside. In the typical Orthodox manner, the church was empty of pews but had high, narrow little seats, looking like tiny wooden cubicles, along the walls for the questionable comfort of the elderly.

Harmonic chanting announced the arrival of four men, whom we took to be priests. They wore black cassocks. Mandarin collars, sleeve-ends, and front openings were piped with scarlet. The rich voices captivated us as they chanted. It was only afterwards we learned that they were four retired laymen who chose to contribute their singing to the church.

 

It was our longest day of touring. While we were gone, the ship had moved to the town of Ruse. It was a happily frazzled group that trudged gratefully up the familiar gangway. Most headed for needed revivifying in the Latitude 52 Lounge. Muriel, Don, and I returned to the cool of my cabin for our personal Happy Hour.

That evening the crew presented a vaudeville show, clever and entertaining.

Monday, 11 June

The Stauffers’ air conditioning was not repaired. We all wondered why Vantage had not couriered the missing part or thermostat immediately. It was agreed that Happy Hour was permanently relocated to my frigid cabin. From then on, both cabin doors were left open during those pleasant periods, sacrificing privacy in hopes that the cold air from my cabin would lower the temperature in theirs. Muriel said later that she thought it helped marginally. Just trying to do something about the problem may have appeared to ease it.

 

The morning project was a walking tour of Ruse. I had not seen anything in the town to endear it to me, so I stayed on the ship and washed my hair. Muriel and Don had remained aboard, so we had a pleasant time together later that morning.

The Captain’s farewell cocktail party and dinner brought all the passengers out again in their finest. Bobbie told us at lunchtime that she and Jerry were invited to have dinner at the Captain’s table. To Bobbie’s obvious relief, we told Don Zeller that we expected him to eat with us.

Our table was next to a wide window ledge close to the service area. Throughout dinner, waiters deposited empty bottles on the ledge in increasing numbers. Muriel, already weakened by their warm cabin, protested that they were blocking the air vent that provided her with a cooling breeze.

What to say about the evening? More champagne than any of us wanted and no more socializing than normal.

Tuesday, 12 June – Constanța, Romania

The Black Sea Riviera. I opened my cabin curtains to darkness. The ship was pressed against the wall of a lock.

Romanian is one of the Romance languages. Its similarity to French, Spanish, and Italian is apparent. Actually, it is the one of the group closest to the Latin from which they all developed.

 

After breakfast, we walked up a cobblestone ramp to the waiting buses. We drove to the beach through the charming old town with its neo-Classical buildings. While the program director invited us to dip our feet into the Black Sea, I didn’t see anyone do it.

Marius remarked, “The Black Sea actually is blue, while the Danube actually is black.”

We had a good view of the great blocks of concrete, shaped like giant jacks, that topped seawalls as far as we could see. These “wave breakers” form a breakwater guarding the city from waves that can be thirty feet high in winter.

We walked to a nearby Orthodox church. Roman ruins had been uncovered alongside it. The outline of ancient rooms remained to prick the imagination.

A great, gold altar wall, elaborate but subtle with Oriental influence, shined through the vast, dim interior. Most of the handful of worshipers concentrated on ritual bowings, kneelings, prostrations, and kissings of icons. The few elderly women wandering about were dressed in long, soft, black or discretely printed dark skirts with loose tops. All wore headscarves. One of them silently, smilingly, produced chairs for Muriel, Don, and me.

 

The afternoon tour took us to the remains of a large mosaic in the ruins of the Roman market and to the newly modernized and growing Archeological Museum with, primarily, its collection of Roman jewelry, busts, pottery, coins, and glass.

We adjourned to a shopping area and I realized that I had left my wallet locked in the safe in my cabin. Don graciously loaned me 40 Leu and pressed me to take more. I demurred. After much browsing through a lovely assortment of items too heavy or too fragile for packing, I settled on my purchases. They came to 60 Leu. I rapidly gave back enough items to allow me to pay for the remainder. Meanwhile, impatient passengers went to other clerks or left the shop to return to the bus.

I flew out of the shop, down the street, around the block, and to my vast relief, reached my group before the bus returned. Don fussed at me for refusing to borrow more local money from him.

Wednesday, 13 June

The end of the cruise. Luggage outside cabin doors at 6:30 am. Early departure for Bucharest by bus.

Only neat forest strips along the roadside prevented our easily seeing across cultivated fields to long, low hills that rose like levees in the far distance.

We were told that houses were built of bricks made of clay, manure, and straw. “They were cool in summer, warm in winter—unlike communist apartment buildings that were just the reverse.”

Throughout Romania the majority of windows were a pair of French windows that opened inward, topped by a fixed pane under a rounded arch. Frequently, window frames were trimmed with two colors of paint.

Farming practices were primitive. Most fields were worked by hand. We were told that usually one or two people in the village owned a tractor, which was rented out to neighbors.

Small homes frequently had a single cow in the little pasture behind them. A wagon with blue arched covering was slowly drawn across a field by two horses. Often a single cow grazed alongside the road, carefully guarded by an elderly man or woman carrying a staff to deter the precious animal from seeking forage on the far side of the highway

 

Entering Bucharest, we were greeted by scrap yards with enormous piles of metal scrap. Homes were small but neat, often with one or more circular windows giving them an Art Deco look.

…and then the results of decades of Communism! Miles, literally miles, of cheek-by-jowl blocks of four- or five-story tall, ponderous, unadorned apartment buildings. Often the only decoration was inexplicable, thick semi-circles of concrete jutting out of bare walls. Narrow balconies often were glassed-in because of the cold. We could see laundry hung to dry on both the open and the closed balconies. Rarely did a planter of bright flowers alleviate the drabness.

Farther in, apartment buildings, though equally large and crowded, had brick trim, were painted in warm neutrals, and had larger rounded balconies. Marius told us that of the three million population of Bucharest, 65% lived in apartments.

Only the abundance of luxuriant, small-leafed trees lining sidewalks and boulevards prevented this view of Bucharest from being utterly depressing. Marius, our Romanian program director, explained that they could not get rid of the monstrous apartment complexes because the city’s needs for housing were so great.

As we reached the center of the city, we had glimpses of Old Bucharest in the charming architecture down side streets. We passed large, wooded parks. A main plaza held a replica Arcul de Triumf (Romanian spelling) erected after WWI to celebrate the Romanian troops’ beating the Turks. Older buildings in the heart of Bucharest were classic Romanian style, a mixture of Italian Renaissance and Byzantine.

 

Bucharest is noted for its dangerous stray dog population. At one time, these feral canines numbered an estimated 50,000. The government tried to cope through neutering, failed to dent the problem, then went to poisoning. Actress Brigitte Bardot headed a worldwide protest movement and the government caved in.

Marius warned us about Bucharest traffic. Our bus slowed, then stopped. From my seat in the bus, I was able to observe the traffic alongside and ahead of us, a carpet of cars, bumper to bumper, eight lanes wide as far as I could see. I could have walked for miles on the cars top-to-hood-to-top-to…Normal rush hour traffic in Bucharest.

Marius added that the city had too few traffic lights to control the volume of cars. Drivers had no hesitation in cutting across several lanes of traffic to make an illegal turn.

 

Despite the traffic, we eventually reached the Intercontinental Bucharest. Nadia brought our room keys to the bus and distributed them there to avoid congestion in the lobby. Fortunately, here I had no trouble finding my way to or from my room. Again, of course, my luggage arrived before I did.

Muriel, Don, and I stayed in the hotel for dinner. It was pleasant to be away from crowds. Conversation was brisk, possibly lubricated by Happy Hour Scotch.

Thursday, 14 June

To our surprise, seventy-four cruise passengers signed up for the Transylvania post-extension package. Our two buses first visited the Sinaia Monastery. We were allowed to visit its church, but not, of course, the monastery itself.

Many of our meals were our own responsibility on this final part of the trip. We found a pleasant little restaurant for lunch, climbed narrow, worn stone steps, and sat on a raised patio under a red umbrella, watching passersby. It was here that I discovered the unbelievable richness of Romanian tomatoes. From then on I ate them three times a day.

 

After lunch we visited Peleș Castle, former residence and summer home of the Romanian Royal Family. As we drove to the castle, I noticed that the cars passing our bus were almost exclusively small four-door sedans of various European makers. Only rarely did a small SUV appear.

The land was flat, with mountains scalloping horizons. No gentle hills softened the transition. Dry weather had turned rivers into beds of gravel, with narrow rivulets of water bubbling through them in twisting streams.

We drove through dense forests, occasionally passing buildings with strange towers, flat-sided cones, and roof ornamentation. Route One, Romania’s finest highway, came as welcome relief to the bumpy secondary road on which the drive began. We passed the Ploiești oil fields of WWII infamy.

Romania (then Rumania) had a habit of protecting itself through fence-sitting and flip-flopping. In WWI, the country bought arms from the Germans and ammunition from the Allies. In WWII, they supplied oil to the Germans, then switched sides and joined the Allies as the tides of war changed.

The enormous cultivated fields on either side of the highway presented interesting patterns. Long, narrow green bands of young corn alternated with the yellow of ripening wheat or barley. We were told that most homes grew enough to feed themselves. If necessary, they traded with neighbors to fulfill needs.

The hip-roofed houses had no running water. Most families had wells and outhouses. As for oil, while the country could supply itself, during the Soviet era, 33% of its oil had to be given to “Mother Russia”—“if she was in a good mood.”

We reached the Carpathian Mountains, the Romanian “Alps.” Ski resorts climbed above us on each side of the road. I felt that, although they were steep, the mountains curving gently, not jaggedly, embraced us.

We followed a tightly twisted road up over the mountain to Peleș Castle, built in the late Eighteen Hundreds by Prince Carol of Hohenzollern. Marius warned us that we would have to walk down about 200 meters of cobblestones.

“That’s two football fields!” I exclaimed.

It was a steep, loooooong walk to the castle. Don and Muriel were not deterred, but wished they had been. They did not attempt to negotiate the many staircases in the castle, but returned to the bus. Don paced out the distance as they climbed back. It was 540 meters, not the 200 Marius had mentioned. Don was not amused.

 

Upon entering Peleș Castle, we were ordered to select felt slippers to cover our shoes. I grabbed the smallest pair I could find, but the elastic straps at the backs were loose. Walking up the first carpeted staircase, I found a slipper someone had lost. As I stopped to pick it up, a voice behind me said, “You’ve lost both of yours.”

Russ handed me my slippers. I stopped at the top of the stairs but could not manage to slip them back over my shoes. My friend knelt down and did it for me. Not long afterwards I lost a slipper again. Once more Russ picked it up, put it back on my foot, and cautioned me, “Don’t lose it again!”

I tried to tuck the straps down into the backs of my shoes, hoping they would hold the slippers on. It didn’t work. I shuffled, flatfooted, along with my group, but the next staircase did me in. This time Bill, one of “Kate’s Gentlemen,” retrieved my slipper and replaced it. By the time the tour was ending and I was faced with a long, downward stairway, I decided disobeying trumped tripping. I took the slippers off and carried them the rest of the way.

“Hide them behind your back,” one of the group advised me, “so the tour guide doesn’t see.”

Muriel told me later that she often ended up carrying similar slippers while sightseeing in other countries.

The castle was built in German neo-Renaissance style, with heavily carved dark wood and massive furniture. I found it depressing. I much preferred the Italian-style rooms when we reached them.

It was a panting group that reached the bus after climbing back up the hill. In recognition of our exhaustion, Marius played the gentle, soothing music of the famous Romanian musician Zamfir, with his Pipes of Pan, on the sound system as we drove to Brașov.

Marius did not realize that this gave us welcome respite from his increased telling of jokes that fell flat and his new habit of ending of every comment with “okey dokey.”

 

The Brașov area was settled by Germans, moved there by Hungary to provide a buffer against an invasion of the wide vulnerable valley by the Turks. Several towns in the area remained conclaves of Germans long after the threat was gone.

We checked into the Aro Hotel. It was the finest in the area, but gave me the impression that it was a three-star hotel aspiring to five-star status. It had the requisite acres of marble, but as Muriel pointed out with horror, “There’s no Kleenex in the bathroom!”

It was after 5:00 pm by the time we had checked in. We were too tired to go out for dinner. Don suggested that we eat in the hotel, preferably in its most informal café. Muriel and I were relieved at his suggestion.

We approached the hotel restaurant. In the foyer, we found several elegantly dressed young people. Glancing into one of the adjacent dining areas, we assumed from its aqua-draped seatbacks and bows that a wedding reception was in progress. We started to leave but a formidable waiter herded us into the room.

Muriel asked to see a menu. Our escort seated us at the closest table, then handed us the cartes. We all were uncomfortable with the situation and barely glanced at the menus. Don stood and firmly announced our thanks-but-no-thanks to the startled waiter.

We exited with as much dignity as we could assume under the circumstances, pleased that the room was almost empty. We adjourned to the bar where, we understood, food could be served. There we were told that they provided only the breakfast buffet.

Before we could resist, a helpful bar attendant took charge of our small group, ushered us through a back corridor, and with a flourish, deposited us with the waiter on whom we recently had walked out. I don’t have a picture of the moment, but assume everyone had a slightly stunned expression.

Either Don or Muriel suggested that we preferred to be as far as possible from the little band that was tuning up. With elaborate courtesy the waiter led us to a table in the far left corner of the dining room. We sat down. Don decided that we would be happier at a table farther to the right. We moved.

We started to seat ourselves at a table on the right side of the room. Instead, the waiter waved us to a booth just beyond it in the far right corner of the room. The booth’s table was exceptionally wide. It was so high that my chin was barely cleared it. Muriel announced that conversation would be impossible.

Don got up and tried a chair at the adjacent table from which we had been moved. He signaled that it was an improvement. Muriel got up and joined him. As I started to slide out of the booth, I was overtaken by an attack of the giggles. I was paralyzed with laughter.

“Will this be your last move?” came the dry query from the booth behind me. It was Russ, who with Bonnie was just finishing dinner. Between giggles I gasped out an apology for our peculiar performance. They thought it was hilarious.

When we all were settled at our final table, the waiter proved his merit by ignoring our previous carryings-on. He was helpful in interpreting the menu, attentive, and somehow avoided smirking. P.S. we had a delicious dinner for a very low price. Our bottle of Romanian wine helped us return to our accustomed poise.

Friday, 15 June

We slept late. None of us wanted to take the walking tour of Brașov. I felt I had seen enough of it on the circuitous drive into the city the night before.

At 11 o’clock we boarded the bus for the Transylvania full-day tour. We drove through flat agricultural country cultivated by primitive methods, hoes or an occasional horse-drawn plough. The patchwork pattern of plots of hops, wheat, corn, barley, rape, etc., formed a symphony of greens. Fields alternated with heavy woods laced by small streams. We learned that poppies were grown in small patches to supply seeds for baked goods. The government banned large acreage of poppies to forestall a drug culture.

Marius recounted the tale of the old “Red Rooms.” When a couple had irreconcilable differences, village leaders locked them into one of these rooms for a month with one cup, one spoon, one plate, one chair, and one bed.

Invariably their problems had vanished by the time they were released.

 

Two hours later we were in Sighisoara, another UNESCO National Heritage town. Lunch was served at an old restaurant in a large patio shaded by wooden latticework. As we filed in, we were told to sit at the tables with red napkins.

Marius had told us we would have a surprise at lunch. We did. A band was playing on a stage in the middle of the restaurant. It was joined periodically by a group of Folkloric dancers in colorful native dress. There was almost as much clicking of cameras as eating.

Following lunch we had a short walking tour of the charming town, followed by time to visit the nearby shops.

On our drive back to the Aro Hotel, the bus driver stopped suddenly for a “photo op.” A large horse-drawn cart, loaded with long sheaves of grass, forage for their livestock, driven by a woman and led by her husband, just had turned onto a dirt road. The husband was persuaded to pause. Passengers poured out of the bus to take pictures, then to tip the man. His grin grew broader and broader. Marius said the one-Leu tips probably added up to a month’s income for the couple.

 

Along with the Soberaij party, we decided that this would be our last convenient opportunity for a farewell dinner. Bobbie promised that we would have to walk just around the corner from the hotel and that she would stop at the first restaurant we came to. She did, we did, and luck was with us. It was an inviting little grotto of a Romanian-German place with a brick interior and low ceilings. An enthusiastic young waiter pushed tables together for us in an alcove at the rear of the room. It was a convivial, happy evening of congenial company, good food, and an ever-refilled supply of wine in small pottery pitchers.

Saturday, 16 June

Our luggage was outside hotel rooms early to be transferred to the hotel in Bucharest where we would spend our last night.

We left early by bus for our visit to Bran Castle, associated with the legendary Dracula. History indicates that Dracula actually was Vlad The Impaler. Vlad, who allegedly visited the castle only briefly, ended a blood-soaked career imprisoned in the castle.

A 100-meter-long, 30-degree flagstoned slope led up to the castle. I copied nearby companions and paused occasionally at the welcome iron railing to catch my breath before resuming my climb.

Bran was a typical medieval castle, heavily stone with low, arched entrances to small rooms and many narrow, steep, curved stairways of treacherously worn stone. Unexpected balconies looked down into flower-bedecked patios.

We learned that before Royalty was unseated, Bran Castle was Queen Maria’s favorite home. She loved it so much that she asked that when she died, her heart be buried there. Her wishes were followed. Her heart was interred in a small gray stone chapel just down the hill from the castle. Later it was moved to the museum in Bucharest.

Lunchtime was disappointing. Bobbie raced ahead to claim a table for our group but was prevented from saving places for us. We ended up at the far end of the room at a semi-empty table with strangers.

 

It was a long drive back to Bucharest. We passed a gypsy village and were assured that they are not persecuted in Romania as they are in other countries. Families were celebrating the Saturday afternoon by picnicking in the middle of fields under great trees far back from the highway.

A sign in a small town read: SPĂLĂTORIE AUTO. I identified the establishment as a simple car wash.

Our run of perfect weather vanished mid-trip with driving rain. However, as we continued on our way, the rain remained behind us in the mountains. The skies brightened to the benign blue we had known the entire tour.

In Bucharest, we checked into the J.W. Marriott hotel, a five-star caravansary that deserved its rating. We hardly had time to enjoy the luxury as we busily completed our final packing and retired early to grab a little sleep before our wee-hours departures. I skipped dinner to buy an extra hour in bed.

Sunday, 17 June

Our luggage was out by 2:45 am and we were en route to the airport by 3:30. Transit in Bucharest was the easiest of any airport. Security was swift and minimal. Muriel, Don, and I were together to the Frankfurt airport, where complicated arrangements unraveled us before we parted for our separate flights home.

Both Muriel and I expected wheel chairs. Instead we were ushered into a waiting room. A delightful couple from the cruise joined us. The woman was a classic German dowager. After some delay, we all were crammed aboard a small motorized car and whisked to another part of the airport. The Stauffers and I said goodbye as they went on to a lounge area where they had to wait five hours for their flight to Philadelphia.

The Germans and I were met by a beautiful, brisk blond who, after ascertaining that we could use an escalator safely, led us upward. We joined a group of sari-clad chatterers. With the competence of a Border Collie, the blond herded us onto a train. After a short ride, we were divided into groups. The Germans and I became a bit more intimate than any of us wanted as we squeezed into the only passenger seat of an even smaller car. Eventually, we actually were delivered to our Lufthansa gate.

 

The trip home was ten endless hours, but ultimately, I reached haven in the Hotel MIA in the Miami Airport. I unpacked overnight necessities, washed two days’ worth of stockings plus myself, and lapsed into exhaustion. I forced myself to stay awake until 6:00 pm, and then gave in to the lure of a perfect mattress and comforter.

Monday, 18 June

I checked out of the hotel early without calling for a wheelchair because I wanted to stop at the Duty Free store. A helpful hotel porter took my luggage and led me to the shortest of the lengthy American Airlines lines. He stayed with me to manage my bags. When I checked in, I was told that my flight had been cancelled but that American had confirmed me on their afternoon flight. I moaned something about regretting the decline of a wheelchair. The helpful agent gave me my boarding pass and suggested that I call for a chair when I returned for the flight.

“My Guardian” explained that American no longer took baggage when passengers checked in. Luggage was returned to them and they were responsible for carrying it over to the enormous scanner. He assured me that he would take care of it. He put my suitcases back on his rack and led me to the device, where he handed my luggage over to the attendant.

I told him I was going back to the hotel. Taking charge of a slightly undone Elderly, he said he would go back and tell the desk that I was returning. He advised me to stop at the Duty Free on my way back to the hotel. He strode ahead with the empty luggage rack. Unfortunately, I did not watch which way he went. I looked at the confusing array of corridors. I had no idea which one would take me back to the hotel. After trying a couple of them unsuccessfully, I asked for directions. A lengthy walk took me to the Duty Free and on to the hotel.

Purchases in hand, I asked the hotel receptionist if I could return to the room I just had vacated. She checked her computer. Some sort of problem. My Guardian came over and learned that she did not have a key for my room. He said he would take care of it and led me to the elevator. On my floor, he stopped next to a housekeeping cart and called to the maid inside an open room. She came out and they conversed in some unintelligible language that I guessed to be African. The maid accompanied us on to my door and unlocked it. My Guardian said that a wheelchair would be at my door for me at the proper time.

 

Back in my room, I had no luck placing an overseas call to Alex to tell him of the delay. Finally I telephoned my son-in-law, Tom, and asked him to alert Alex that I would be in on American’s late flight.

The wheelchair arrived far too early, but the attendant was a miracle-worker in avoiding lines. He delivered me through Security and to my gate swiftly.

I hope I never have to fly American again. Their planes are like putting on an overcoat—too narrow seats crammed too tightly together. Still, the flight was uneventful, though late. In Belize, Alex was waiting.