italia - vienna - romania

the afternoon air after the rain becomes luminous and young tree blossoms shine with an uncommon soft luminosity

 la grotta dell'eremita.

in the hermit's cave the early morning light enters and rebounds and illuminates and wakes up.

simone says that a man lived here alone in between the world wars.  he was called the hermit but many suspected that he was a spy.  at a dinner party one night an old local woman spoke to me in the piemontese accent, of which i understood little.  simone later told me what she had said:  her father used to come to the cave and hit the man who was a spy.  she seemed proud to tell us that.

i tell simone how such a troglodyte lifestyle would appeal to me and he says:  maybe you could become the new hermit here.   people would come to visit you and you would serve them chai.  they would give you food to eat.  it happens in india, and i think it could happen here too.

i had never considered becoming a troglodyte until then.

in vienna i stop by tim's place.  i met tim at a vipassana meditation course in india.   tim told me he was looking for a bike to cycle from turkey back to austria.  i told him that i had followed that route in the opposite direction and left my bike in turkey, and that he could take it back to vienna if he wanted.   

there was a strange feeling of familiarity upon seeing my old bike again.  so much road we had shared together.  it is wonderful to glide through the streets of vienna, but i now see the bike as heavy, cumbersome, and not nearly as conducive to meeting people as hitchhiking.

we go to the park to play tisch tennis.  as soon as one hits the ball one runs round to the other side and thus the threesome constantly circumnavigate the table, running and laughing and hitting the ball.  den Ball.  

 wo ist der Ball? i ask the children.  the ball has flown into the bushes.  no matter how much we rummage in the bushes, the ball will not be found.

"der Ball ist verloren," i have to conclude to the children.

outside vienna i hold a sign saying "ROMANIA" and soon a van stops going to romania.  gabril the driver first says that he will give me a lift if i give him money, then he listens to me and asks, "unde te duci in romania?"
"hunedoara" i say.
"ai noroc" he says, "eu me duc la deva, la jumatate de ora din hunedoara"
jump in
it is something like eight hours of travelling in his old van, stuffed full of bric a brac he has bought in the flea market in vienna and will take to the flea market to sell in alba-iulia, romania.  i help them by scouring the nearby wasteland to find a piece of wood to jam the back door shut.  it must be strong and of the right dimensions, gabril observes, otherwise the door could fly open and then everything will fall out on the motorway.  we stop for a bowl of hungarian soup and gabril tells me that i should keep talking to him to keep him awake on the road.   even so, even with my growing romanian conversation doesn't flow so very easily between us.  there is a limit to the number of things one can say before it becomes saying something for the sole sake of saying something.  speaking.  emitting sounds from one's mouth.  exchanging ideas between one intellect and another.  instead i strum my ukulele and sing in english.  no, i know no romanian songs.  on a piece of paper i draw the image of the dashboard as it presents itself to me, including gabril's hand resting on the steering wheel.  gabril's fifteen-year-old son then does the same and concentrates very hard on precision of line and makes a beautiful drawing.  every so often gabril beats his chest and calls out proudly "gypsy!"  he proudly curls the tips of his long moustache.  but what does it mean for you to be gypsy? i ask him.  what is a gyspy? i have to make my questions simple in our simplified way of communicating.  "skin colour" i am told, "a gypsy has dark skin.  and a curly moustache."

we cross hungary and enter romania after nightfall.  before reaching deva, gabril turns into a layby and says "ten minutes pause."  soon he and his young son are leaning on each other, fast asleep.  i don't know what to do.  i am also tired but cannot sleep easily in the cramped front seat.  i consider getting my sleeping bag out and stretching out on the flat ground outside.  after an hour the gabril wakes up and silently starts the engine.  in deva, his son recommends that i sleep in the plastic tower in the children's play area in macdonald's.  "no-one will see you there," he says, "no-one goes there at night.  you will be protected from the cold"

instead i walk out of town and snatch a couple of hour's kip in an orchard, waking up to see two shepherds standing over me and the sun climbing into the sky.  another friendly lift and a half hour walk up into the woods and i arrive at aurora, a young permaculture project high in the hills of transylvania.  i spot ioana collecting salad in the garden and make animal noises to announce my arrival.  cuba from the czeque republic is also there and is fond of making what he calls power smoothies - consisting of nettle leaves, radish leaves, radishes themselves, sunflower seeds and spices, all whipped together in a blender.  "not everyone likes it," he confesses, but ioana and i are instant fans.

we paint mandalas one evening - circular symbols of the never-ending harmony of the universe - and the next day in the rain we tie them to the trees to mark the path for future visitors.

we visit the beekeeping neighbours, and make a plan to prepare a few jars of walnuts to exchange for a jar of honey of theirs.  they serve us tsuica - strong grappa distilled from apples.  i say to the woman who is the daughter of the beekeeper: "ce frumos este aici"

"you really think so?" she says,  "i never liked living here.  i have always wanted to live in the city."