Now that we both have our proof of vaccine on our phones I feel much easier about Eugeniu going out and about to take care of the many things that need to be done and those things that need to be purchased. We are so fortunate to have excellent delivery service for online purchases and using a credit card makes it safer by handling currency.
Now that the pandemic has changed almost everything I see that we have been fortunate all these years in having opportunities and experiences that we no longer can.
So checking my entries I found a repeat, but this story has not been posted on this blog as yet.
It was not my first trip to the seashore but the adventure was unique. Now I find drafts annoying to say the least.
On the Train
The Canal, the Black Sea, and
Barbeque Constanta Style
By Nancy C. Rice
Copyright © 1997
The old couple on the train was
afraid of drafts! They smelled so
bad. In first class yet!
The train ride toward Constanta had
been glorious. I had a book to read,
newspapers to scan and paper for writing, but I could not keep my eyes from the
window where I could see the red poppies along the track filling the bare
spaces beside the track. Alongside
fields and road ways the poppies sometimes crowded out the wheat with huge
patches of orange red. The gardens were
lush; the corn, knee-high. Pale gold wheat
covered the rounded hills. These
remnants of an ancient mountain range stop sharply at the edge of the Black
Sea.
The rich history of the port city
of Constanta reaches back in time at least to the 6th Century B. C. when the port
of Tomis was established by the Greeks.
If you climb the tower of the mosque from Byzantine times, there is a
splendid view of the old port. Nearby
the ancient Roman market is on display below the historical museum where Ovid’s
statue stands guard.
After our business meeting, our
host’s driver took us on a tour through Mamaia, beyond the huge oil refinery at
Petromedia. He showed us land given to
the revolutionaries which is now available for sale at a good rate because the
owners have no money to build on it. We
drove past a rock quarry, high up a hill to a fantastic view of Petromedia’s
port. This land would be perfect to
develop a factory for products made from the chips at the quarry or other
complementary types of production. Our
driver left us at a new restaurant in Navodari where enjoyed a lovely view of
the Suitghiol Lake from our table on the terrace. The salad was refreshing, crisp and savory. My perch was bland, but Eugen ordered a
different and tastier fish. The
vegetables had been boiled beyond possibility of flavor. I was sad to miss the hearty and delicious
flavor of Romanian vegetables, but we enjoyed the pleasant and restful ambiance.
We walked across the park to the
beach at Mamaia where we found a spot to put our towels on the sand. We enjoyed the sun and a dip and a wade in
the icy cold water of the Black Sea. I
longed for the warm surf of the Gulf of Mexico.
There were tiny jelly fish pulsing amid the clouds of dark green algae
gradually making way to the shore. The
beach was crowded. Children scampered in
various stages of beach dress and undress as they played with balls. Crashing into the shallow water, they were
oblivious of the algae and of the sun baking delicate, fair skin. Paddle boats for hire sat lonely on the
shoreline. There was a monkey on a chain
available for poses in front of the vendor’s camera. Other vendors had tiny
cars with little palm trees riding atop the trunk. Most surprising and most glorious of all was
the camel. At first sight, Eugen said,
“It is not real.” When it moved, he said,
“Oh, it IS real!” He could not be
persuaded to pose with it.
We walked along the edge of the
water hoping to find another place, one free of the tiny creatures swarming
everywhere and most uncomfortably on our skin -- face, legs, arms, back,
anywhere. We walked farther from the shore
but could not escape them. The terrace
of a refreshment stand had white tables with tiny black slashes covering the
tops. We ate Ice Cream on a stick.
A taxi took us back to the home of
our host in Constanta where we were welcomed by our hostess who reminded us of
our invitation for a barbeque.
After freshening up, we found Aura in the
kitchen preparing fried squash to go with the plump green olives, red and green
peppers, fresh tasty bread, and cascaval (cheese) that were served. We sat in the patio between the freshly
painted stone walls of surrounding buildings.
One wall, pristine in its whiteness, reminiscent of Greece, provided a
backdrop for one huge, glorious thistle, just ready to bloom. It grew at the edge of the patio in a small
crack. Petre said he kept it because it
was as tough as a cactus. Petre’s twenty
or more years as a sea captain has taught him much about toughness.
Friendly neighbors joined us for a
pleasant evening. After a while, Aura
climbed a ladder to a loft from whence came the wood she dropped in a sling to
Petre. He placed the logs in the
standing metal pit, so much like our own at home. The flames roared tall, then settled in. Over the hot coals, fish on the rack cooked
slowly to a golden sheen. We ate with
vigor. I recognized and commented on the
similarities. In Texas, we may put beef
on the grill, but the neighbors and the camaraderie are the same.
We talked late into the
evening. Huge drops of rain drove us in
doors where we topped off the evening nibbling on sunflower seeds and the
evening news.
The next morning the driver took us
to see the Constanta Free Zone in the South Port. It was a fascinating sight. We continued south not quite as far as that
other ancient port now called Mangalia, known as Calatis to the Greeks. We left a message for a friend at a hotel in
Eforie Sud and stopped for refreshment in Eforie Nord. The view was splendid. It was a pleasant trip. We are fortunate to find such good friends.
On the train -- not the faster
Inter city -- we have stopped at Medgidia on the Danube-Black Sea Canal --
heading for Bucharest. I think of Harry Truman’s saying,
“The buck stops here.” Last week the
news featured a picture of a group of skeletons in chains recently found
somewhere along this canal. I want to
know where it was on this route we take.
These bones are all that is left of these workers who dug this huge
trench that shortens passage from the Danube to the Black Sea. Who is responsible? Is it only at the top? Surely Truman meant that his was the last
chance to say: “No. Stop.
Find another way.” Not,
definitely not, the first. He also meant
that his, too, is the last stop in the chain of taking responsibility for the
consequences. What is it in our nature
that allows us to treat other human beings in such a brutal manner?
We approach Cernavoda, the Danube
port where the Canal begins. We can see the towers of the nuclear energy
plant across the water. The
sign says Cernavoda Pod, meaning Bridge. There is a lone black lacy wrought iron cross
standing against a background of purple spumed weeds between the tracks. Not enough for so many dead, but enough to
mark my wonder at how it happened that way.
I heard later that this cross was placed there for those who died
in the early nineteen fifties while building this canal.
We are near the archeological
site where the ancient clay figures of Sitting Woman and Thinking Man were
found. Could this prehistoric potter
have seen the future? Did this artisan
wonder if humans would ever learn to cultivate cooperation, creativity, justice
and kindness? Did Rodin see these before
he sculpted his more famous statue?
We cross the Danube beside Saligny’s
Bridge. This engineering marvel built
over a hundred years ago is being restored.
It was the first bridge of that size in Europe at that time. Soldiers stand at attention in groups of four
at intervals along the track.
We stop again.
It is hot. A deeply embedded odor
penetrates every corner of this compartment.
The old man puts on his coat when Eugeniu opens the window. It is not cold. There is no accounting for the body’s ability
to tolerate temperatures. He swelters
because he is afraid that the breeze will make him sick.
There are more soldiers along the
track. Hats fan the hot air along the
tracks. The train slows but does not
stop. As we
travel towards Bucharest, I notice fresh new paint at each station. It is like a blessing. An engine newly dressed in brilliant red is
attaching itself to the train two tracks over.
The rows of chairs where passengers wait for the next train have fresh
coats of vivid blue paint. The whole
appearance of the station changes with this one small touch. Are these bright colors making up for all the
years of drab? Is that why nothing was
maintained? To keep the people down,
out, uninspired, lethargic? Do these
colors wake them up? Inspire? Energize?
Or has it all been spent enduring?
Waiting for this better leader, one who gives without the paralyzing
limits of unreasoned control? Making a
place where it is possible for each of us to say, “The buck stops here. What I do counts.” It is like the ripple on a pond when a pebble
falls, a circle going out and one does not know where they go or what will
boomerang a surprise to you.
North of the Danube at Cernavoda,
the land is flat as far as the eye can see.
Tiny lines of the poplars on the horizon mark a passage way through
grain fields nearly ripe for harvest. The open window does not provide relief when
the door remains closed. I remember the
fear of drafts and try to understand the long term difficulties that cause
anyone to live with smelly clothes. I
caution myself about pointing fingers, casting stones and walking in another
person’s shoes. Nevertheless, this Texas
girl needs fresh air.
As for responsibility and
consequences, so many pebbles are thrown into the pond that all of us claim it
is the ripple of another stone, certainly not ours. My knees ache more fiercely riding along the
Danube Canal. It is so huge beside the
tiny human figure. I wonder what “boss,”
what ideology, what ignorance, what hatred for other people, what fear drives
the ordinary human to obey, to pass along, the orders of those deranged enough
to conceive, and carry out, a plan so immense by such cruel means. A picture pops into my mind and the question
posed becomes its opposite. When and where
was it done any other way? And I
understand then that this is the struggle that democracy permits. Just and equitable processes to achieve great
results exist. They are possible. The struggle will never end.
When the train pulled into the
antique station at Bucur Obor rather than our usual Main North Station, my
husband, Eugeniu said, “It is all the same.
We are in Bucharest again.” The
taxi windows were tightly closed. It was
hot and did not have air conditioning, but we were almost home. Soon we passed through thick walls into the
coolness of our apartment and enjoyed a refreshing gentle breeze. It was a good trip.
