I watched the glowing countryside of Hungary bounce past the cracked and
dingy window of the bus that we were taking to the Romanian border town of
Orodea. The hot air swirled around us and the glare of the setting sun
made the weathered barns and dilapidated houses look like mirages in burning
fields. We reached the border just after dark and waited for the next four
hours in a long, tired line of buses, trucks, and cars that were meticulously
searched before being allowed to pass through. The brilliant lights of the
vehicles cut through the inky blackness and drained the color and life from any
object in their paths. Spectral shapes of tired travelers wandered on and
off the buses, the hum of which was punctuated by the cry of a baby or the
musical sound of conversations that I couldn't understand. At last our
turn came, our passports disappeared into the folds of the night as our bags
were flipped open and given a cursory look.
We stumbled back aboard the bus, weak from hunger, exhaustion and lingering
illness and scanned the highway ahead of us for the lights of Orodea.
We had just
drifted off into a hallucinatory sleep when the bus jolted us
awake as it bounced into a dirt lot on the side of the road. A string of
colored lights hung above the door of a solitary roadside bar. The driver
stood up and yelled, "Orodea!" Orodea? But there was
nothing there except the bar and a thick groves of trees that surrounded it.
We tried to ask the driver something, anything, but having no common language
proved difficult. We walked inside the bar, carefully avoiding the mangy
looking dog lying on the steps, to see if we could find some help there.
Inside was a handful of bleary-eyed men perched precariously on their stools,
who looked up in surprise as we entered. The woman behind the bar had
thick make-up on and frayed blond hair that hung in messy braids down her back.
She was wearing a dirndl that pushed her cleavage up to unnatural heights and
made her look like a demented Heidi, but her warm smile quickly set our tired
minds at ease. She swooped down upon us, shooing the drunken men away, and
asked us question after question in Romanian which we couldn't answer. She
gave us cokes to drink and called a taxi to take us into Orodea, which was just
a few miles further down the road. When we finally reached the town
it was after midnight and the deserted streets gleamed with rain. The taxi
dropped us off at an old hotel next to the river. We walked into the
lobby, thick with frayed red carpet and chipping gilt trim on the walls. A
tiny television hovered above a threadbare couch and some broken chairs.
The flickering light cast a sickly pallor across a man and woman sitting at
opposite sides of the room. He stared at us suspiciously for awhile before
slowly walking over to a small booth encased in plexiglass and checked us in.
The hotel was beautiful and frightening, a reminder of past decadence and
present decay. Our room was at the end of several twisting hallways and
had rotting french doors that opened onto a tiny balcony with a view of the
river and the full moon hanging above it. I loved the sinister beauty and
stillness of our evening, the surreal journey that we had made to this troubled
country, and was excited for the day to break and reveal its other sides.
We had just
drifted off into a hallucinatory sleep when the bus jolted us
awake as it bounced into a dirt lot on the side of the road. A string of
colored lights hung above the door of a solitary roadside bar. The driver
stood up and yelled, "Orodea!" Orodea? But there was
nothing there except the bar and a thick groves of trees that surrounded it.
We tried to ask the driver something, anything, but having no common language
proved difficult. We walked inside the bar, carefully avoiding the mangy
looking dog lying on the steps, to see if we could find some help there.
Inside was a handful of bleary-eyed men perched precariously on their stools,
who looked up in surprise as we entered. The woman behind the bar had
thick make-up on and frayed blond hair that hung in messy braids down her back.
She was wearing a dirndl that pushed her cleavage up to unnatural heights and
made her look like a demented Heidi, but her warm smile quickly set our tired
minds at ease. She swooped down upon us, shooing the drunken men away, and
asked us question after question in Romanian which we couldn't answer. She
gave us cokes to drink and called a taxi to take us into Orodea, which was just
a few miles further down the road. When we finally reached the town
it was after midnight and the deserted streets gleamed with rain. The taxi
dropped us off at an old hotel next to the river. We walked into the
lobby, thick with frayed red carpet and chipping gilt trim on the walls. A
tiny television hovered above a threadbare couch and some broken chairs.
The flickering light cast a sickly pallor across a man and woman sitting at
opposite sides of the room. He stared at us suspiciously for awhile before
slowly walking over to a small booth encased in plexiglass and checked us in.
The hotel was beautiful and frightening, a reminder of past decadence and
present decay. Our room was at the end of several twisting hallways and
had rotting french doors that opened onto a tiny balcony with a view of the
river and the full moon hanging above it. I loved the sinister beauty and
stillness of our evening, the surreal journey that we had made to this troubled
country, and was excited for the day to break and reveal its other sides.
