Friday Five: Cities in Transylvania

Piața Mare, Sibiu

As most of you will know, I have recently returned from two weeks in Transylvania. The main purpose of the visit was so that Him Outdoors could compete in the World Age Group Duathlon Champions (he came fifth, which is such an excellent result that even he is happy with it!) but of course I managed to get in some serious tourism. Here are the highlights of the cities (some of them were towns but let's not get bogged down in definition) we explored. 

Five Cities in Transylvania:

1. Brașov: Located in the centre of Romania and surrounded by the Southern Carpathians, Brașov has a population of 253,200 making it the seventh most populous city in the country. It was a walled city and, despite a fire which destroyed much of the fortifications, some of the gates are still in existence. It has a vibrant central square, one of the narrowest streets in Europe, an abundance of churches, a Hollywood-style sign on top of Mt Tâmpa (accessible by a by a cable-car), and a great cafe, restaurant and bar scene. Historically, the city was the centre of the Burzenland, once dominated by the Transylvanian Saxons, and a significant commercial hub on the trade roads linking the Ottoman Empire and Western Europe. The Saxon merchants obtained considerable wealth, exerted strong political influence, and their influence on the architecture of the city is still evident. 



Brașov from above

2. Cluj-Napoca: Two fabulous squares lined with cafes and restaurants, a family-friendly park for promenading and boating on a lake (we also saw group zumba and people strung out in hammocks), an evident rave scene, and a well-frequented botanic gardens are among the highlights of this vibrant city with a strong student vibe (evidenced in a number of excellent craft beer bars and a couple of microbreweries). A stunning mix of Gothic and Baroque architecture combine with Communist-era Brutalist buildings, which tell their own story alongside the statues of various political and religious figures. The National Museum of Ethnography exhibits feature stuff like mills, looms and folk costumes, and a startling collection of scary-looking icons on glass, while the stadium appears positively futuristic from the top of Cetațuia Hill. 



Restaurant scene in Cluj-Napoca

3. Sibiu: Encircled by the remains of medieval walls and towers, Sibiu is known for the Germanic architecture of its old town. It is also known as The City with Eyes due to the iconic eyebrow dormers on the roofs of the houses, whose initial purpose was as a ventilation system, but legends say they were built to frighten the people and make them believe they were being watched. There is not one; not two; but three piața, and from the top of the Council Tower one can see six church spires. In 2007 Sibiu was the European Capital of Culture, and it has many museums and art galleries, including the ASTRA National Museum Complex (a 96-hectare open-air museum with a focus on ethnography) and the Brukenthal National Museum (in which every other picture is Crucifixion this or Annunciation that, or a still life with a dead rabbit). The city straddles the Cibin River via the Bridge of Lies - rumour has it if you tell a lie while standing on the bridge it will fall down. 



Eyes on the Bridge of Lies, Sibiu

4. Sighișoara: Listed by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site, the city is a popular tourist destination for its well-preserved walled old town, with multiple towers marking out the fortifications. It's relatively small with 164 houses in the city, most of which are over 300 years old and are considered historical monuments. One such is the birthplace of Vlad Țepeș, otherwise known as Vlad III or Vlad Drăculea (but not Vlad the Impaler), one of the most important rulers in Wallachian history and proof that one person's war criminal is another's national hero. I mean, sure, he committed acts of unspeakable cruelty and mass genocide (boiling people to death and driving spikes into their heads were favoured pastimes) but he defended Romania from invading Turkish hordes, so, you know…



Part of the fortifications of Sighișoara

5. Târgu Mureș: Proving that not all cities in Transylvania have beautiful buildings and bustling squares, there is a substantial component of Communist-era architecture here, as many of the original buildings were demolished by the communist regime of the 1970s. It is surrounded by beautiful forests and bucolic country vistas where farmers scythe the fields by hand and storks perch atop telegraph poles to build their enormous nests. Restaurants are copious and offer a range of dishes from hearty meats in creamy cheese sauces to some of the best vegetarian food I have ever tasted, garnished with edible flowers. Guide books may complain that the fortifications are over-restored, but they are used frequently for shows and celebrations, with a bar in the walls and atmospheric lighting at night. Ethnically, it has one of the largest Roma populations of any city in the country and the remainder are roughly equal Romanians and Hungarians with a smattering of Germans and Jews. The Palace of Culture is a remarkable building in the city centre richly decorated with mosaic panels and stained glass windows. The art within is equally incredible with a the Romanian and Hungarian collections being exhibited on separate floors. 

Mosaic ceiling at the Palace of Culture, Targu Mureș

World Age Group Duathlon Championships - Edinburgh 2010

The parade of nations for the World Age Group Duathlon Championship is an interesting affair. The athletes range from slightly embarrassed to pleased as punch, but all are proud to be wearing their national colours – it’s a pretty big deal to represent your country at something; especially a sport.

A female piper leads them through their paces – she is bouncy and bubbly and really rather good. There are bagpipers on every corner of Edinburgh. I don’t particularly like the infernal instrument but most of these pipers are excellent – as they should be really or they would be drummed out of town. There are the ususal Flower of Scotland and Gay Gordons and we did hear one playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star which sounded rather odd. Our lead-out lady played We Will Rock You, among other things, and the athletes all lined up to listen to welcoming speeches and be inspired.

No amount of inspiration and plates of carbohydrates can make up for a stinking cold, however, and Him Outdoors suffered somewhat in the race. It was around Holyrood Park, and the Salisbury Crags, Arthur’s Seat and the Scottish Houses of Parliament made a dramatic backdrop. We all met at the transition to cheer and support him on his runs and bike ride.
 

He was obviously feeling the effects of his malady and, although he was laughing on the start line, he was visibly struggling in the first lap (out of four) and actually turned an alarming shade of grey. He then settled into something ‘a little more comfortable’ (these were his words afterwards) but it clearly wasn’t his best form. (You can check out his split times if you’re interested.)

His transition was excellent and he seemed to be happy to be on the bike. He cycled the five bike laps pretty much on his own which must have been hard. Of course there is no drafting in age group triathlon, but it still would have been good to see someone to chase down.

The final run was actually quite good – he had found his rhythm and was running confidently through the last two laps, bringing his position up to 38th (out of 74). Apparently you could request music as you ran over the finishing line; he didn’t know this but was still welcomed home by The Cure, perhaps a trifle too appropriately; ‘I’ve waited hours for this; I’ve made myself so sick, I wish I’d stayed asleep today.’ The commentators picked out his kit and he got a great mention for representing New Zealand in the ‘famous all black strip’ – he was first Kiwi home.

His overall time was 2:25:04. I know he said that he had wanted to do about 2:10 (which would have put him about 20th) but that’s simply not possible when you can hardly breathe. I know he will be the last to make excuses, and that he won’t be happy with the result but we are all very proud of Him Outdoors.

Race Action

I watch some of the World Duathlon Championship junior and elite races in Rimini. The marshals are very officious: some with whistles; some with guns. A Brit wins the junior women’s race – it’s good to hear the anthem. Vanessa Fernandez flies through the elite race, blitzing the field and showing up the lack of depth.

I cheer on the Brits and the Kiwis and feel very egalitarian. One woman asks if I can cheer for Canadians and I don’t see why not. South Africans are cheering Brits and Kiwis; Americans are cheering their own massive team, and some folk are supporting everyone – it’s a good atmosphere.

Him Outdoors talks to everyone – Americans; Canadians; South Africans; Australians – okay, anyone from an English-speaking nation; he just smiles and nods at the others. The Brits say it is impressive we can support so many of our team by name – they don’t even know who half of theirs are.

A young American lad comes last in the junior race and promptly bursts into tears. I know how this feels. His coach says he has come from being a big fish in a very small pond and is now floundering at the World Championships – chalk it up to experience and note what you need to improve for next time.

Him Outdoors stubs his toe while practicing his transitions. I mock, I must confess, until I see it – all purple and swollen; not ideal for a race. He sits around all morning whingeing that he’s bored and wants to be on holiday, annoyed with his cold and his ‘herpes’.

I go down to the beach to watch him run and cycle up and down the front. Supposedly the folk on motorbikes arte pinging people for drafting, but I don’t see much evidence of the pinging, although there is a lot of drafting going on. It’s a good job that I’m not relied upon to count the number of bike laps because I get it wrong and stand waiting for him to complete his last bike leg when he’s already started his last run.

We race from side to side of the course for a couple of hours, especially through the convoluted and contrived running course. It is hard to know where people are placed, but apparently Him Outdoors comes first Kiwi in his race. He does really well and I’m so proud of him, even if it’s not his best race ever. At one point Dad asks, ‘He looks very white – is that normal?’ No, in a word. He runs his little heart out, or certainly his stomach, the contents of which he leaves behind a tree in the finish area.

Back at our hotel with my parents we crack open the champagne. Him Outdoors has half a glass and needs to go to bed. Committed supporters that we are, we finish the bottle for him. He gets up later and we go to the evening ‘do’. All the age group folk get awarded their medals and the bianco is soon finito – unusual for these athletic types to drink their wine.

It is customary at these functions to swap apparel and the Kiwi kit is in high demand – Him Outdoors leaves with a new Brazilian team jacket.

Parade of Nations

Watching the parade of nations provokes mixed emotions. Him Outdoors reckons things start to get serious from here and he begins to feel the competition – if we didn’t despise the expression so much, we would probably say we were getting to the business end of the contest.

Although I am proud to see him march beneath the New Zealand flag, my heart still feels British. He tells me there are numerous Kiwis and Aussies who are representing Great Britain so I suppose that evens things out.

Some of the lads do the haka, turning round and facing the other competitors. South Africa, used to seeing this and knowing how to respond, push through Portugal, Poland and Qatar (they are lined up in alphabetical order) to front up to the challenge. It is good to see the skinny white blokes putting passion into it.

South Africa sing harmonies as they parade, Canada hand out little flags, Japan wear strange constumes, and France and Italy contest the best-dressed award.

Meanwhile the Great Britain team fly the union flag upside-down which is either a great insult (lese majeste) or an international distress signal. Him Outdoors points out that this isn’t the best look before a race, and no one had even noticed.