An Afternoon in Sibiu, Romania

The main square of Sibiu was my favorite destination on walks through the old city.  It was cobblestoned, with small streets and alleys branching out of it.  A fountain in the middle was the main attraction for children escaping the heat while their parents sat in surrounding cafes, each establishment out-advertising the other with huge banners announcing World Cup matches. 

On my last day, I sat on a bench from where I could see three clock towers at once. Each one was showing a slightly different time.  With a snicker of endearment, I settled in for my favorite pastime: people-watching.  As the day went on, I reminisced on the time I’d spent there.  A man in a green wool sweater sat next to me and I played over the best entries to the ballet competition my family had traveled there for.  The man lit a cigarette and left, replaced by a pregnant woman and someone I assumed to be her mother.  I thought of the friends I’d made: dancers from Japan, Russia, Moldova, and France, just to name a few. 

Next, I was joined by a group of students, talking and laughing loudly.  They looked so happy and comfortable that a thought occurred to me: a place exotic to one is can be seen as banal and every-day to another.  This was my second time in Romania and I didn’t know if I’d ever return.  I savored every moment and marveled at how lucky I was to go to such a place.  But for the guys smoking and laughing next to me, this was home, and places that are familiar to me would seem novel and unusual to them.  The world is huge, and places are wildly different, but the people (and I’m trying hard not to be too sappy here) are basically the same. 

The man in the sweater, the pregnant woman, the careless students all have their routines and familiarities.  Their eyes would turn wide at the sight of an American supermarket, while to one from there, it is the pinnacle of the mundane.  Corn dogs and fried chicken they would consider delicacies, while an American wouldn’t know how to approach Romanian staples like mămăligă and ciorbă de burtă.  The only way to balance it out is to travel, see it all, and tell everyone you know about it, like a sort of international prophet.  Sounds excessive, but that’s how I felt sitting alone on a bench in Transylvania: inspirational melodies were playing themselves in my head, and I felt the immensity and the power of the world in my very bones.  If life were a musical, I would have started singing.  But then, I had to leave.  Maybe one day, I’ll come back.

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