Be careful of Hitchhikers

Ever since I arrived here in Romania, and since I am driving lots in the car, I notice the roadside. I notice that the lush green pastures are now being turned and seedlings are starting to sprout. I notice road signs of which I have no understanding of their meaning, I notice people trying to hitch a ride and occasionally I notice the street workers.

I've been wanting to stop for a hitchhiker ever since I started driving. Unlike in places like Sydney, it's quite common to hitch a ride here in between towns and cities. Some places aren't serviced well by any public transport so people rely on hitching a ride to get to work. And they pay for it too. I often wonder who they are, where they're going and also wonder why there isn't a more efficient system to make this hitching a ride business easy. Like why don't they hold up signs stating where they want to go?



We travel a lot between Arad and Timisoara and sometimes to Szeged in Hungary and see lots of people. Today was the day we stopped. It was a chilling and quite devastating 10 degrees today. Rain and wind. Just after crossing from Hungary to Romania at Nadlac I see this woman with shopping bags standing on the side of the road. We have to stop and pick her up I say. It's freezing. I'm excited. Our first hitchhiker.

I get out and make room for her and all her shopping bags. I expect we'll have a conversation about where she's going and what she does. We learn she is headed to Deva, about 5 hours drive from where we collect her. We tell her we can drop her off in Arad. She seems OK with that.


Silence. The conversation stops. She doesn't reveal any more information and I don't probe. Not that I can really ask deep and meaningful questions in Romanian yet.

We drop her off and I notice her high heels, extra tan stockings and bright red lipstick. I'd only noticed her shopping bags before. Perhaps they didn't have groceries in them. Linda2 tells me she realised just after we picked her up that perhaps she was a street worker and we'd be expected to pay her going rate. If so we were not very demanding clients. Then I thought she might be an occasional street worker. Only doing it when she needs to.


I later told a local that we picked up someone on our way back. They thought we were crazy. They're gypsies you know, they have more money than you. Why should you waste your petrol on them! What an insane idea. Why wouldn't I pick up someone who wants to go where I'm heading? And I'm already polluting the environment by driving and that person isn't.

Might just pay better attention when collecting a woman next time. Be sure I won't have to pay her instead of her paying me!

Uneven Ground

The cobble streets are uneven yet delightful. I’d forgotten what it’s like to walk through a historic city. Timisoara. I’d almost been captivated before I knew how important this city was. I’ve found my favourite café, my favourite pastry shop and remembered how to navigate my way between the two beautiful piazzas that dominate this city. I’ve driven round in circles – the city was built as a fortress - managed to identify and remember a few street names and distinguish the two bridges that cross the Bega river.


Timisoara (pronounced timishwara) is the site where the 1989 revolution was born when protesters gathered outside the house of Pastor László Tőkés, a vocal opponent to the Ceausescu regime. The secret police were ordered to deport him and his supporters protested. The army were ordered to fire and thousands were killed. It ended the communist regime of Nicolae Ceauşescu and marks the Romanian revolution.

I could have walked through the cobbled streets of Timisoara and not have known what significant ground I was walking on. They cause me to trip, women in high heels navigate them and hundreds of birds feed on them.


I later saw a water fountain where people stop to fill their water bottles. A water fountain adorned with hundreds of names. I ask and am told this is a monument remembering those who died on that fateful night. It seems a rather insignificant monument for such a catastrophic event. I ask again and am told it’s just one of a series of monuments that were created and installed around the city. An eternal flame, a statue and others I haven’t yet located. Then there are monuments that were donated by companies. One is a tall and intrusive neon cross erected in front of the Romanian Orthodox Cathedral by an electrical company. Seems somewhat dubious.


I then wonder if there’s a symbol or face to this revolution? An image, an icon or worse or better still a figure. I glance up and see a billboard that features Che Guevara selling something. How different the idea of a revolution seems here than in Latin America. Why? Yes hundreds died, fighting to free themselves from an oppressive regime. Should this not be revered? I meet an Iraqi immigrant, now a Romanian citizen, who introduces me to his daughter, her name is Gegehvara. Named after the ‘revolutionary’ figure he tells me.




No one seems to smile. Everything seems a struggle. But you’re free now I think to myself, why are you still so sad? Of course I don’t think it’s that simple. Are they all waiting for a miraculous turnaround of events? Now part of the EU, most people tell me there’s been no real difference. This week the president announced salaries would be cut by 25% starting June as the country has no more money! Each election a different party is elected and seems to undo, for better or worse, the work of the previous government.



Sure there is progress. Infrastructure, technology, commerce….but do all these things mean that much? The average wage is 200 Euro per month while the average apartment in the city centre costs about 300 euro per month?

I paint a bleak picture. I get frustrated easily. I get happy when someone smiles. I’ve discovered birds outside my window that sing all day and night. I begin to like walking on the uneven ground.

A good coffee is hard to find

There are many things that are different here in Romania - that's what's so interesting. So many great things like pastries and sweets, free wifi everywhere, very helpful people and so much more.

There are some things that take adjusting to though, when you get to a new city, a new country and culture.

Coffee has been a sore point for me. Some who know me have been privy to emails detailing my excursions in pursuit of a good coffee. OK, so I drink coffee with milk and the puritan Italians will argue that's not real coffee. Argument taken into consideration.

I have after many attempts though, found what is called here a LATTE MACCHIATO - which in Italy is in fact a cup of warm milk with just a hint of coffee. Commonly consumed in the morning. Here in Romania though, the Latte Macchiato is similar to the Australian Latte. Bingo! So I think I'm sorted. I know the coffee to order that sort of relfects what I crave in the morning.

There are are a few problems though. The milk tastes strange here and the best coffee they have is Illy (no offence, as I quite like Illy - but since the wave of artisan coffee blenders arrived in Sydney I've been fortunate to have a lot of choice and good coffee - like the ones made by my good friend Renea)...I digress.

Today I came to Bierhaus - a pub. You can have coffee in pubs here which is another great thing about this great country.

I ordered from my friendly waitress (who is dressed in traditional German attire - alas no flaunt of the bosom) in my broken Romanian a Latte Macchiato. She returned quickly. First problem I notice is that they serve it with a straw instead of a spoon. How in God's name can I stir in the sugar with a straw. And why do you expect me to drink coffee out of a straw! Again I digress. After I've managed to stir the sugar around a bit, I take a sip and it's cold. Maybe luke warm at best.

What words do I use in Romanian to complain? I gesture to her, she comes over smiling and I tell her "It's not warm". She is horrified. She steps away. I smile. A friend helps explain in better Romanian than mine that she should just make one that has war milk in it. She's puzzled and dosen't want to take the coffee away. What, do they never have anyone complain? Has she never made a mistake. She has problems to deal with that go beyond not being able to deal with dissatisfied customers. Don't they give staff an induction that includes how to deal with unhappy people like me? I guess not.


She goes away and comes back with a new one (see above). I touch it and it's warm. I'm pleased. I smile at her and thank her profusely. I wanted to ask for a spoon instead of a straw but thought I'd just deal with it. I stir, take a sip and burn my *%&$ing tongue! Is she serious. Do they really not know what temperature the milk should be warmed to? Renea what is it? Perhaps I should tell them.

I dare not tell my waitress that I'm even more dissatisfied than I was before. I drink icy water to soothe the tongue and vow to find a place that knows how to make coffee at the right temperature, let alone GOOD coffee.

OK, so there's one thing I miss about Sydney. It was bound to happen. It certainly didn't happen when I called Westpac's 24 hour hotline to ask for a new pin number earlier today. The woman, forgot her name now, though she introduced herself so well, had the strongest Australian accent I've heard in months. I don't really miss that do I? There's another great thing about Romania - there's no horror of bumping into a crowd of loud Australians behaving badly.

Adventures with the Dacia continue

My dad used to drive a concrete truck. That was Diesel. Trucks have Diesel not small city sedan’s right? Well the robust Romanian Dacia takes Diesel – now I know. I also know what happens when you put petrol into a Diesel engine!!! Not at all good.

Seems like all my adventures happen on the road. This time we set out to our next city, Timisoara. We were lucky enough to be given the trusty Dacia to take along which was a huge relief. No one likes the idea of public transport here. On the way we stop for petrol, benzina as it’s commonly known as here. We pull up at the pump unaware what any of the labels mean but realise they’re some form of petrol. Good. Surely this can’t doesn’t take Diesel so we can’t be wrong. Fill her up, pay and head back on the highway (one lane between major cities is considered a highway here!).

Dacia starts to choke, she starts to shake. What am I doing wrong? Chug. Chug. Chug. Linda and I look at each other. Maybe I’m driving too a high a gear. Yes that’s it. Go down to third. Chug. Chug. Did we put the wrong petrol in the car? Agnes on the other end of the line quickly confirms that of course the car takes Diesel! What? So what now? Should we pull over? Can we continue? Oh fuck. Will we make our meeting at 2pm? Could we be that stupid? We call people. One says pull over straight away, the other says go to Timisoara and sort it out there. Hmm. We pull over on the side of the road. There is a poor unsuspecting victim standing outside his village house, unaware his afternoon will involve hard work.

Linda asks him for advice. It’s happened to him twice. I feel reassured. He’ll help us. We have to get the petrol and out, do some technical things and put diesel in. I try to start the car to move it off the side of the road. It doesn’t start. Jesus what have we done. Why would this need to be a Diesel engine! I see three robust men and Linda out of the rear vision mirror as they push the car to safety. The man’s father emerges laughing and another older man who will surely be the knowledgable one gets to work.

They have empty plastic containers. This will be interesting.
I have some vague recollection from my youth of my father sucking on a hose pipe to get petrol out of a petrol tank and sucking until the petrol touched his lips in order to empty out the tank. It seemed easy enough, but I wasn’t going to step in at this point. Apparently you can’t do it like that anymore, not with new cars the younger man informs us (well informs Linda – I understand nothing but am given little bits of translation). You have to remove the back seat, do some strange thing to remove something I’ve never seen and then suck the petrol out. 5 plastic containers later, yes we’d filled the car up, all 35 litres it could handle, we have one empty petrol tank. There are some further complications I don’t understand. One man opens the bonnet and looks aimlessly for something. The younger man emerges from his backyard with what looks like a plastic bottle filled with Diesel he just happens to have lying around. Some further complications but soon enough we have 5 litres of Diesel in the car, the car starts and we’re assured we’ll make it to the next petrol station 5kms away to fill up.

How lovely of these men to help us damsels in distress. And what did they want in return? Nothing. Well except the 35 litres of petrol they’d sucked out of the car! They helped us and dealt with the unwanted petrol as well. Super. Back on the road and we reach Timisoara and make our 2pm meeting. We vow to go back and bring the men a bottle of something strong.

Lesson in Romanian pop music

Getting acquainted with all the latest and greatest in Romanian pop music I thought I had to share the hit that's blasting out of the speakers of late.

I'm hoping you remember the pop Group O-Zone who came to fame with their hit 'Dragostea din Tei' in 2004, also known as the 'Numa Numa' song because those of us in the West had no idea what lead singer Dan Bălan was saying. Although they're a Moldovan group, they sing in Romanian so I'll consider them Romanian pop, just like we consider Mel Gibson Australian.

Having left O-Zone, singer/songwriter Dan Balan is in the charts with his new hit, Chica Bomb. Directed by All-Star-American video clip director, Hype Williams, it's worth a watch. Apparently the sexy woman featured in the clip isn't Romanian but it's still an example of excellent Euro Pop. Download it now!

Things the guide book won't tell you about Romania

Really I don't know why these points aren't mentioned in the guide books as I think if they were, it could dramatically increase tourism to Romania.

1. You can smoke everywhere (except the Bank and the Police as far as I can see) and everybody DOES.
2. Places commonly known as cafes like in Melbourne or Paris are really bars here - dimly lit and turn into night clubs in the evening. They have free wifi which is a huge bonus.
3. There is only ever one bathroom at any place you go (one for each sex if you're lucky) and the doors don't have locks so bring someone to guard the fort.

4. The radio is on everywhere and it's usually very bad music. Here's a sample of who you might hear: Rod Stewart, Richard Marx, Madonna, John Farnham (!),

5. People still use hairspray and put rollers in their hair.

6. Typerwriters are still used.

7. Online dating sites permit naked photos! and there's no restraint on behalf of those seeking a mate.

8. You cannot bribe police but it pays to know someone.

9. Free to air porn exists on TV.

10. Diazepam can be purchased for $AUD 1.00

I did go and get my hair cut and coloured yesterday. I said yes to hairspray!

So Much to Tell

I've been taken away by adventures and hence no blog for the last few days, so sit back and enjoy the lines.

Most of the adventures have happened on the roads of Arad and Minis. I've been driving around the robust Dacia and getting quite acquainted with the road rules and driving on the right side of the road, so much so that I've impressed the locals.

For some strange reason I had this idea that road rules were non existent here in Romania, that speeding was encouraged and police could be bribed. How wrong I was. Leaving the small town of Minis after a Sunday lunch I turned onto the highway back to Arad and was immediately pulled over by police. Oh God! Was I supposed to get an international licence? Was three glasses of wine too many. My heart starts racing. I manage to wind the window down and I look straight ahead at the road and let my trusted Romanian passenger navigate the discussion. I pull out my NSW driving licence and he looks at it obscurely. Where's my passport he says. Me, carry around my passport - that would be silly - I might lose it. I'm informed that just because it's not the law in Australia doesn't mean I should disobey the law here. Turns out i was speeding. I've been asking for days what the speed limit is, and no one has managed to tell me. I clocked 17 kms over the limit. He makes me sign a piece of paper and tells me in English I have two days to pay the fine of 60 Lei - about $AUD20. It's not that bad I think. Apparently they'll also take 2 demerit points from my Australian licence! Uff. As if they'll know how to call Australia!

Meanwhile we've called the super-connected Agnes Bohm to help solve the problem. Soon enough an un-named police officer in an unmarked car that only fits him in it reverses the wrong way down the road and reaches my window. He gets the low down. Drives to the police officer who issued the ticket then returns, again driving backwards down the wrong side of the road, and asks me for the ticket I was issued. He takes it from and speeds away. I guess that means I don't have to pay? It does pay to know people, especially the Head of Police :)

The other night I was also introduced the Commander of the Community Police (glorified security guards or rangers I guess) who took us on a clandestine mission to check up on her staff posted around the city. It felt like I was in a reality TV show when we arrived at Post 1 and the officer guarding an important Hungarian statue was nowhere to be found. A phone call was made and loud words impressed upon the person on the phone. Turns out the officer had gone to the bathroom - big no no! The commander asked if we'd like to volunteer on future missions. I said yes, but only if I get to wear the uniform!

I was also in a car accident today, nothing to be alarmed about and it wasn't me driving the Dacia thank goodness! Getting caught for speeding was enough.


I've been having a few problems, namely language barriers and suffering from the cold weather. The other night I was invited to the theatre. Great, I thought. Local art and culture. The production was Anton Chekhov's Cantecul Lebedei (The Swan's Song) translated to Romanian. Interesting start - women get naked and then the protagonist has a monologue for half an hour screaming in Romanian and I don't understand a thing.

More disturbing has been my inability to order the right meal when I go to a restaurant..until today perhaps. I just wanted meat, good meat like I thought I'd find, but so far I've managed to order pork with pasta and white sauce spread all over it, pork with red sauce smeared all over it and some schnitzel covered in cornflakes! My local dive, the Bierhaus today whipped up a chicken schnitzel and I was thankful. Ordering food isn't easy. The waitress tells you the salad you've selected is not good because it comes from a jar, and the people around me all try to order on my behalf convinced I'll like what they've suggested. I don't. Ended up at McDonalds as a result.

Yesterday was Pastele Mortilor, the Orthodox version of The Day of the Dead. Apparently the cemeteries are alive, people come to offer food and celebrations last until the evening. Having been to Patzcuaro in Mexico and witnessed a spectacular celebration, I was excited. The local Commander said she'd come with us. Apparently they gypsies cause trouble and fight with people as they've been drinking all day...hmm, I was curious. We arrived at 7pm at one of the larger cemeteries to find broken egg shells and piles of dumped flowers, but no party and no gypsies. I was sorely disappointed. The Day of the Dead in Mexico is one of the best things I've experienced in my life. I called upon those memories to comfort the let down.

Apart from all this I've just been walking around, sightseeing, visiting malls, and the industrial areas which house warehouses bigger than the whole of Newtown.

Tomorrow I'll go and get my haircut. Let's hope I can communicate something decent and I don't come back with lots of hairspray and a fringe.