Day 30--Calarasi to Braila, Romania

COUNTRY ROADS

Thursday, July 24, 2008
Calarasi to Braila,Romania
Distance: 175 km (109 miles)

X+--We follow the river or different branches of the river  thourh numerous farm villages to Braila. This is a long distance today, but we'll start early and take our time.

Today we left Calarasi and followed the Dunărea—or different branches of it—north to Braila through numerous farm villages. There were a couple of smallish hills but the terrain was mostly flat, if one doesn’t count the climbs in and out of potholes.  

Breakfast was served individually this morning and was slow in arriving. It was supposed to be ready at 6:30 am for an early start on our 109 miles, but it wasn’t. In Croatia, Hungary, Serbia, and now Romania they brew each cup of coffee separately and serve it last. We had a tub of yogurt, toast, a ham & cheese omelet, and o.j. (which I tucked into my rack pack along with everyone’s cukes). Tomatoes and cukes are breakfast fare here. I love them for roadside snacks.

After breakfast I tucked my lunch into my rackpack and managed a 7:30 am ride start. Stefania had ordered a cheese-and-olive-filled pastry for each of us for lunch from a nearby bakery; also a large soft pretzel and another meat pastry, which I did not choose. I ate my lunch at 100 km (62 mi) on the nose, having promised myself I would stop when I hit 100 km no matter where I was. Fortunately I was near a Lombardy poplar that provided some shade. I simply stood beside the road in the shade of the tree (pictured right with the roadside cow below) and ate my pastry, drank the o.j., and ate some cukes while watching a shepherd get his large flock across the road.

The shepherd gets the last of his large flock across the road

When the shepherd and his flock had passed, it was just me and the tethered cow, who was bellowing for water. Her tether allowed her to stand on the bank above the small creek and see the tantalizing water below, but her chain wouldn’t let her drink. She often turned her velvety face toward the plains and distant croft and bellowed loudly. Of course I felt sorry for her. If I’d had anything to put water in, I would have gotten her some. 

Tethered cow who could not reach the water under the bridge, the railing of which is in the bottom center of the photo

A few semi’s and some traffic blew past as I was eating. This route, while narrow, two-lane must also be a popular route to Braila because it carried quite a bit of  traffic. Think about that for a minute. The road is just blacktop laid down in a thin layer over whatever happens to be the surface, its edges as crooked as rolled pie crust, and it passes through tiny, poor villages strung along it.

More migrant bee hives (those driven to fields and orchards for pollination) and a couple working their individual hives

I asked to take this photo of the horses and foal and the driver obliged

Villagers seem to have not noticed that their main street has been paved and now carries traffic. As though in the era before cars, they stand in the middle of the road to pass the time of day, stop their bikes and carts in the center of the lane to talk to a friend or jump out and dash into a tiny store; herd their geese, turkeys, goats, and sheep down the road; drive their aging tractors on the road (if they are lucky enough to have one and to have the price of the gas to run it); tether their horses, cows, and donkeys within a nose hair of the road; and accommodate the many dogs and cats that run loose. 

They live a dusty existence. There was so much dust and dirt blown up on today’s route that when I got in and mopped my forehead, the washcloth turned black. I also left trails of dark grit in the tub.

I'm guessing but I believe the sign at left says "Thank you for visiting Stelnica" and the one on the right  says "Welcome to Tichilesti"

The road is just another dry river, flowing through their lives and used to enrich it. Not only do they use the road for socialization and transportation, but also for commerce, this season selling watermelons, cantaloupe, pears, plums, and produce from their gardens in small roadside stands or occasionally large roadside encampments. I passed one peasant out in the country near no house that I could discern, who was offering a lone watermelon perched on an overturned bucket. I would have bought the melon in a minute if I’d had any way to carry it. Those sellers in the villages were often the gooseherd or duckherd as well, keeping an eye on these free-range birds as they pecked at roadside.

The melon vendors have gathered beside the road

Many of the roadside houses were painted all sorts of bright colors—green, blue, cinnamon, pink, teal—orange being the favorite. I saw a bright orange house with bright red trim today, each window sporting a box of red geraniums. At that moment I was intent on speed and did not stop to take a photo. Now I regret it.

Each house is fenced, and the roadside portion of the fence gets much attention. The fences in these poor villages are predominately wooden and they sometimes get a coat of bright paint along with the house, but more often are left unpainted. Trees are planted between the fence and the road for shade, or sometimes this narrow strip of dirt is used for flower and vegetable gardens. Near the gate in each fence is the ubiquitous bench. As in nearly all the villages we’ve passed through, this roadside bench serves as perch from which to watch the world go by. Today villagers watched with interest as eight brightly clothed, helmet-wearing cyclists zipped past.

About 20 miles from Braila we were routed onto a nasty piece of road, if it even deserves the name. It was hugely potholed, dished, and  worn to the point of gravel for some stretches. The thing that made this more interesting was that it appeared to be a shortcut for semi trucks. I had to contend with them coming right at me and wanting to share the same “smooth” piece of road or coming up from behind and leaving me little choice but to stop and get off the road. I had to be careful that they did not splash the water out of the potholes on me and my bike, too. I’d estimate that we had about five miles of this. Those five miles seemed like twenty.

Nearing Braila I could see mountains in the distance, and then suddenly I was negotiating Braila’s loud, impatient city traffic. It amazes me at how abrupt the move from rural farm community to city streets. There is often very little transition. One minute I’m rolling past fields of wheat and the next past restaurants and high-fashion stores. I think I could ride in NYC now that I’ve ridden into all the big cities on this ride. I even followed Ex+ arrows through a train station waiting room in Budapest: In one door, quickly across the high-ceilinged hall, and out the other door. “Did I just ride through a train station?” I remember asking myself.

Entering Braila

City drivers vary little from their country counterparts. Trucks and cars stop abruptly in the middle of the lane to disgorge passengers, make deliveries, or just talk to someone at the side of the road. Mini buses do too, and people run out to get in on the driver’s side sometimes. I had a few choice words for two teenagers who pulled out directly in front of me and then, laughing and pointing, slowed to a crawl to cut me off. These teens, for whom bicycling and walking are as commonplace as breathing, find our helmets and bicycle clothing comical.

We are in a huge, Soviet-era type hotel ( Hotel Belvedere) with oversized lobby. I had enough time to shower, wash and hang my clothes, and take a quick reconnaissance before Judy and the Rear Guard got in, so while Judy was taking her shower, I got directions to the recommended restaurant for the evening and scouted out the route to it, probably a mile walk or a little more. On the way, I came across a completely open manhole in the sidewalk near a busy intersection. Pedestrians seemed to take it in their stride (literally). Any inattentive pedestrian (or his child or dog) would have stepped in and fallen 12 feet to the sewer system below. In the U.S., someone would have slapped down a lawsuit instantly.

Our hotel

Just outside the big square on which our hotel sits, was a scrawny, skinny, dirty guy dressed in a Santa suit with a grey Santa beard lying on his chest. He had a bathroom scale before him and was urging people to pay him to weigh themselves. The square itself was full of couples, and young families with strollers. The guys flexing their tattoos, and the girls—many with unnaturally hued hair— strolling their stuff in tight pants and 4-inch heels.

I found the Antic restaurant with no problems, and returned to be faithful guide dog for Judy. On our walk to the restaurant I wanted Judy to see the lightweight Santa weighing passersby, but by the time we set out, he was gone.

I had a good meal at the Antic of beef tenderloin tips and potatoes in cheese. Judy had spaghetti. When we got there Rod and Bob were there and Marion and Fred just leaving. Judy and I sat with Bob & Rod. Then Harold and Carolyn came in, so when Bob and Rod left, they came and sat with us. It still puzzles me why we can’t all eat together on these evenings on our own.

On the way back to the hotel, the four of us stopped at Cool Chocolate for an ice cream cone. I got coffee double dip (tiny dips) and Judy got cherry vanilla. Harold and Carolyn got coffee too.

The ice cream store

I had left Hotel Calarasi at 7:30 am in a light rain. I arrived in Braila—109 miles and eight hours later—at 3:45 pm. In sunshine. That computes to a 13.6 mph average, and the time includes all my stops. Speed wasn’t necessary today because though I rode in full sun, it was a mild day—the high probably in the mid 80s—so my energy level remained pretty high while cycling. But, after dinner, I was so exhausted that when I hit the room, I cleared off the bed and literally fell into it. I was asleep in less than a minute.