Museums and the painted monastery

Tueday, September 25, 2012

Experiencing wireless withdrawal, but also anxious about not being able to check in with things at home, we wake up much too early in our beautiful rural room, hung with Moldavian carpets, woven and/or embroidered with bright floral patterns on black background. Other cloths are of an almost white rustic linen, which you see a lot here, always with a little embroidered detail. The handwork is so fabulous in this country.

Elena and Marinel prepare a delicious breakfast with Turkish coffee and a special fresh nut yogurt and muesli, as well as other delicious things. Outside it's a sunny cloudless day and Oswaldo goes to talk with a black and white cow tethered nearby.

He's obviously remembering the many summers spent on his father's cattle ranches. We say goodby to Elena and begin our journey northwards towards Suceava.

At this point we're looking more than rumpled. Although never having mastered the art of traveling light - the toiletries alone weigh a ton - we have now lived in the same 2 or 3 sets of clothes for two weeks. The strain is beginning to tell!

First stop is a charming little museum in an old border patrol house. It's closed, but an old lady is watching us sort of sideways 

(it's rare to exchange a direct open smile with a Romanian person) and she may be the one who sends a man running over to us to conduct an agitated dialogue with Marinel. I ask if they're mad at us, but he assures me they're not. This is the way they speak. The man runs off to get a school-master, who has the key, and while we wait we watch a rooster with his flock of chickens peck in an apple orchard, a horse driven cart on the road, and another - driver-less - working over the grass in a ditch. It's so peaceful. Soon a big man in a flapping coat strides across, "Peter," he says and shakes our hands in a crushing grip. If it were not for the setting and - frankly - his very ripe B.O., he could be an important CEO, such is his natural confidence. He is, however, local history teacher, and shows us, piece by piece the items in the lovely little collection put together by his 6th graders. 

Then we're off again to Gura Humorlului and the Buscovina Museum of Folk Customs, where the director, Mrs. Elvira, is waiting to show us around. We pass through an exhibition of cartoons from all over the world, to an impressive rendering of the major seasonal feasts in Romanian culture. Mrs. Elvira speaks only French, the version Oswaldo spoke with his first father in law, who was Romanian, so with my shaky Alliance Français we have to combine notes of what we actually understood afterwards. 

Nonetheless the exhibition is not only as complete as one could wish, but also put together with genuice love for the traditions of the country. We're very happy to have seen it.

After a quick walk through a local market we're off to see the famous painted monastery at Voronet. Sorrounded by parking lots and stalls selling artifacts the monastery is quiet and peaceful in a flowering garden behind a high wall. The outside paintings are incredible - the one below is of the last judgement

and inside, where pictures cannot be taken, the colors are brilliant beyond belief. Every surface painted and decorated. Wandering around the garden afterwards I see a yellow rose in full bloom and bend to smell it. This is when I see two bees busily working inside it - and quickly retract my nose.

In the parking lot outside I inspect the stalls wondering whether something will catch my eye. I am almost giving up with the garish sameness of everything, when I see an embroidered blouse in a stall manned by a young girl - she turns out to be 10 - the age when the feet are big, but the body hasn't grown yet. She is quite bossy, is willing to show me her merchandise hung on clothewire with pegs, but quickly rearranges everything I have touched. I find her very sweet and decide to buy one of her blouses, but ask for a discount. She reaches into a pocket - I think for a calculator, but no, it's her cell, she calls (Marinel tells me this) her father and asks him to put her mom on the phone. They discuss whether the discount is ok. It is. I buy the blouse and she smiles a tiny smile. When I leave, she is rearranging the other blouses I touched.
It's time for lunch and Marinel recommends a place back in the town. We order sparingly, but he doesn't and it takes a long time for the lunch to appear and for us to eat it. I have now mastered the art of ordering side dishes and the one traditional postato dish I was going to try the girl forgets to order....
Then we're off again to drive through the Carpathians near the Ukrainian border and to see the monastery at Sucevita. The cloud has turned a dark grey and when we stop at a lookout to take a picture of the view

we're splattered with rain and have to run to the car. By the time we reach the monastery it's raining so hard it would be hopeless to go in. We don't want to get drenched and it's getting late. So with a stop to buy ceramics from an old lady in black we go towards Suceava, driving slowly because the road is almost flooded. We reach the Sonnenhof hotel in the early evening. It turns out to be a really pleasant surprise. Quite new, cheerful friendly staff, a room with everything you could wish, and a restaurant humming with activity. When we later go down Oswaldo has a plate of excellent smoked salmon arranged around a delicious cucumber salad and I have lightly breaded and fried shrimp with a salad of wild rucula - I haven't had rucula since I left Brazil!  http://www.flickr.com/photos/siric/sets/72157631625791707/