Romania 2025: Part Four - Sibiu

 

15^th March 2025, Sighișoara-Sibiu

It’s supposed to get up to 27c today. At 10am, sitting outside our bungalow with the leaking toilet it’s supposed to be 20c according to BBC Weather but, trust me, it’s bloody freezing.

We have to check out at 11am and our train’s not until 3:45pm. We leave our cases and venture out to waste four hours. That’s not easy in a small town like Sighișoara, especially when you’ve both got very heavy colds or worse. How slow can you walk? How long can you make a coffee last when it’s not hot in the first place? How long can you take to roll up a cigarette and then smoke it? You see, I’m not an expert on these things, but I’m learning from the master. Also, my stomach’s playing up so I’ve taken a Lomotil. Or I hope it was.

An evil vampire cat tries to hypnotise me.

 

Having explored every last nook and cranny of the Citadel, after an hour nursing a hot chocolate, we decide we’ll go at 2:15. Google Maps says it’s a 15-minute walk to the train station, but we manage to plod it out to 45.

I’m trying to pragfacture some adrenaline into my body by getting stressed as to where and when the train’s leaving, but there’s only one and it’s sitting there when we arrive. The men’s toilet is the worst in Europe and you’re supposed to pay 2 lei to use it, not that anybody’s asking for the money.

The train is quick when it can be, but is forced to stop every five minutes at stations where there are no towns or villages and nobody’s getting on or off. 20 of these. It’s hot and humid inside and a man shuts down the only source of ventilation, meaning I have a ticklish cough the whole two-hour journey, which the two elderly couples who’ve occupied seats opposite us monitor closely.

At Sibiu station there is, unfortunately, no unsafe path crossing the lines and I have to lift both my reasonably heavy, and Mrs Mad’s extraordinarily heavy suitcases down fifty steps into an underpass and then immediately up fifty steps. It may have been the first time ever she’s been sympathetic to me having a cold.

It’s a 15-minute walk to the Airbnb. We enter via a unique electronic door code which is the same code needed for the upstairs bedrooms, which makes no sense whatsoever.

Oh, my days! What a difference paying an extra £10 a night makes. It’s beautifully laid out with a generously-sized kitchen-living room area, all mod cons, thoughtful details and all the things lacking in our previous Romanian accommodations - plugs in basins, dish clothes, a freezer you can safely put your hand into, although it’s full of frozen bags of chicken for some reason, hot water, locks on toilets. And, OMG, there’s a dishwasher! We may be eating in rather than at terrible restaurants.

I took her to a supermarket, I don’t know why but I had to start it somewhere. So, it started there. Loaded up on gin, beer and yoghurt we venture out for food. There’s a huge, attractive square like the ones they have in Austria and Germany.

We follow the lights down a wide pedestrianised boulevard which, despite having pretty buildings, is somewhat reminiscent of a British High Street. Like Bromley, but nice.

Although Sibiu was once the European Capital of Gastronomy, as Hull was once European Capital of Culture, there’s no restaurant we can find that meets our criteria, i.e. people in it, not in the middle of the street, not just serving pizza, pasta, pig and crap, and not playing techno. We’re too tired to make decisions. So, we return to the Carrefour and cook a cheese and onion omelette, with chips and a token green salad.

It’s our final destination so it’s possible that Sibiu won’t get as much attention as the other cities we’ve been to. Also, it’s bucketing it down.

16^th March 2025, Sibiu

BBC Weather predicts light scattered showers. It’s 11:30 when we can finally venture out, the rain having mellowed to one notch below torrential, and I get us lost in Sibiu’s attractive medieval lanes, going between Lower and Upper Town several times because Google Maps doesn’t tell you about the hills. But they’re only defined by 20 metres of altitude. I say that it reminds me of Edinburgh. Mrs Mad disagrees.

We reach the farmers’ market which shouldn’t have been as far away as it was. It’s just like the other markets in Romania, crowds of peasant guarding their beetroot and tiny pickling onions, but we’ve very little cash. The ATM is so high up that Mrs Mad can’t see the screen, and I can barely because the script is faded and there’s a sudden unexpected intermission of sunlight. I may have pressed the £5 or £500 rather than the £50 button, but we never know as the machine is broken due to not having any money in it. We’ve just enough change to buy some out-of-season imported tomatoes and aubergines.

 

We’ve spent more time in the Carrefours than we have in the rest of Sibiu. I’ve been stressed all morning because tomorrow we’re supposed to check out at 11am and the plane’s not until 6:30pm, meaning five hours of dragging Mrs Mad’s suitcase across Sibiu’s cobbles in freezing conditions. I’ve messaged Airbnb guy to ask if we can check out late (I’ll pay extra, PS I love your place, love you too etc.) but he’s not replied. I try both the WhatsApp numbers he’s supplied to no avail. In desperation I google the number and find he’s a Romanian-American estate agent in Passaic, Noo Jersey. At 2pm he replies, having only just woken up: ‘Sure, stay as long as you like!’ Which is tempting except it’s going to be -9c on Tuesday. According to BBC Weather. ‘My only fee is a good review,’ which he will get with bells on it.

The deluge begins again and we’re not able to leave the house until 3pm. We go to the Brukenthal Museum which contains the art collections of a certain Baron Samuel Von Brukenthal, a Habsburg Governor of Transylvania who nicked everything from the locals and afar. 

The first floor is a curious mix of palace and portraits of strange and ugly Saxons, who used to be the majority here but fled to Germany thrice: after WWII, after Ceaușescu and after the fall of Communism. Do Not Touch ladies follow you from room to room, but oddly there are none on the second floor where there are a couple of Brueghels, a Ruben’s and a Titian.

To make sure we get our six quid’s worth there are also Transylvanian, Romanian and Japanese exhibitions. The whole place is very dark. Personally, I prefer modern art. Or no art.

 

Returning via a Carrefour or three where we buy wine, tonic and crap eggs, we set about the task of constructing a massive vegetarian moussaka. Anybody who has cooked this knows this involves every pot, pan and culinary object in the house, and several hours cooking. But who cares - we have a dishwasher! Called Steve. Also, I’m determined to use the bottle of Romanian gin I bought yesterday, and Mrs Mad’s not helping much.

The last time we made one of these was in Northern Greece and had to leave it behind for obvious reasons. The lovely owner later thanked us profusely, ate some and then said, as politely as possible: ‘In Greece, we make this with meat.’

I wonder what the cleaner here will make of it. Whenever he or she turns up, given that we’re allowed to stay forever.

17^th March 2025, Sibiu-London

No problem getting an Uber. The airport’s tiny and deserted – they only have five flights a day.

What kinds of idiots put the duty-free before passport control? They don’t have any signs announcing this abomination. We’re sitting at the gate waiting for the plane to rock up and I’m staring at it in longing through the giant glass panes. However, there is a tiny gift shop.

The slim black Dunhill that I’ve been smoking here, because everything else is American and I’m boycotting their goods because of you-know-who, is the same price as in the Carrefour. I want to buy some Romanian slivovitz or pálinka, because that’s what everyone drinks here according to Bram Stoker, and I didn’t see any in the Carrefours we visited. The only bottle they have is called Dracula and costs €35, but I buy it anyway. We’ve failed to purchase any gifts for our children which is unfortunate as our eldest has just been to Vietnam and Thailand, and our youngest’s girlfriend has just been to Japan, and they both return with cases full of presents.

So, would we return to Romania? The people are very nice, polite and helpful, if somewhat reserved, but you knew that already because you’ve probably met many of them already in England, even if you didn’t know where they were from. Food is generally dreadful. There’s some very pretty architecture, and then there’s București.

The main thing is that it’s the wrong time of year. We’ve seen programmes about the natural beauty of Romania, particularly in the Carpathians in the North, and it looks stunning, absolutely jaw-droppingly gorgeous. But there’s not easy and cheap way of getting around as public transport has a long way to go and, although the drivers will stop for a pedestrian crossing at least 50 metres away, Romania has one of the worst vehicle accident rates in Europe. Maybe we’ll come back one Spring or Autumn to meet the bears.