Sibiu, Romania

By Benjamin Moser
February 12, 2007
Forgotten for the last two decades, Transylvania's prettiest city is enjoying a year in the spotlight.

"The Communists saw these things as subversive and bourgeois," says the owner of a shop named Antik, describing a Latin and German manuscript, written by a Hungarian nobleman in 1814, that synthesizes everything that was known about the world's languages. "So the intellectual families took them into the forests and buried them in wooden crates. They stayed buried for almost 20 years. Then Nicolae Ceau¸sescu decided that culture was good for the nation, and they dug them up."

Romania betrays little evidence of Ceausescu's affection for culture. To construct a single monstrous building in Bucharest in 1984--the House of the People, today known as the Palace of the Parliament--he razed a historic area roughly the size of Venice. Even places like the beautiful Transylvanian city of Sibiu, spared the wrecking ball, were so neglected during the tyrant's 24-year rule that the town may as well have been destroyed: Churches rotted, palaces crumbled, and museums were looted.

Ceausescu was overthrown (and shot by a firing squad) in 1989; Romania joined the European Union on January 1, 2007. The Romanians couldn't be more excited. The word Europe, which in luckier parts has a tinge of meddling bureaucrats and high taxes, here means a chance to recover the culture and identity that, in Romania's terrible last century, were so violently blown up and bulldozed.

Each year, the EU chooses one or two member cities to showcase--with exhibitions and performances--to the rest of the union. This is meant to foster a greater understanding between the many cultures. To prepare for its stint as a European Capital of Culture for 2007, Sibiu spruced up everything from its public squares to its sewers. The city's baroque architecture has been restored, and the treasures that these buildings once housed have been returned to their rightful places. Jan van Eyck's masterpiece, Man with Ring, is back in the art galleries of the National Brukenthal Museum--the Communists had taken it to Bucharest--as is a stolen Titian, Ecce Homo, that was recovered by customs agents in Miami.

Casa Luxemburg is a small symbol of the European solidarity that has given Sibiu a new chance. The city of Luxembourg is also a Capital of Culture for 2007, and its government has taken the opportunity to fund the renovation of this historic building on one of Sibiu's main squares. It now holds the Luxembourg consulate, a tourist information center, and a small guesthouse with six bedrooms. The country's relationship with the town dates back centuries. Migrants from the Moselle River Valley--part of which is in modern-day Luxembourg--founded Sibiu in the late 1100s.

Near one of Romania's oldest restaurants, the 500-year-old Butoiul de Aur, there are plenty of places that boast of Sibiu's connections to other parts of Europe, like Ciao Italia pizzeria and the British-pub-style La Turn.

Even though it's had a serious face-lift, Sibiu is still Romania. In the mostly unrestored lower section of the city--where you can walk past faded pastel facades (such as that of homey Hotel Ela) and wizened old women selling vegetables on bedsheets spread on the cracked pavements--you'll feel as if you've wandered into a sepia picture of the Old Country from an immigrant grandparent's scrapbook: a piece of the past, dug up and returned miraculously to life.

Lodging

 

  • Casa Luxemburg Piata Mica 16, reserve with Kultours, 011-40/269-216-854, casaluxemburg.ro, $75
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  • Hotel Ela Str. Noua 43, 011-40/269-215-197, ela-hotels.ro, $43
  • Food

     

  • Butoiul de Aur Pasajul Scarilor 3, 011-40/269-214-575
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  • Ciao Italia Piata Mica 23, 011-40/744-210-769
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  • La Turn Piata Mare 1, 011-40/269-213-985
  • Activities

     

  • National Brukenthal Museum Piata Mare 4-5, 011-40/269-217-691, brukenthalmuseum.ro, $2.25
  • Shopping

     

  • Antik Str.Nicolae Balescu 23, 011-40/269-211-604
  • Resources

     

  • Tourist Info Center S. Brukenthal 2, 011-40/269-208-800, sibiu.ro
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    One Guy, One Bicycle, One Cross-Country Tour

    Two things happen when I drink Scotch with old friends: Believing I can speak Spanish, I attempt to do so at completely inappropriate times (such as to a Birmingham, Ala., policeman after hours of tailgating); and I say things I often end up regretting, like "I cried during the final episode of Friends." And so it was in 2005 that I found myself in a dimly lit sushi joint asking my confused waitress for a dessert menu--"¿Cuál está para el postre?"--and then blurting out to all within earshot, "I'm thinking of cycling cross-country. By myself." Alcohol aside, the idea had appealed to me for as long as I could remember. And I'd just sold my tour company after 20 years of guiding bike trips in Europe, so I finally had the time to embark on the journey. But my declaration on that particular night in May meant that in order to take advantage of summer weather, I'd have six weeks to plan the trip. Not to mention train. I wasn't in great shape, but I was confident that I could ease my way into the tour, strengthening the requisite muscles en route. I bought an armful of maps (detailing food, lodging, and bike repair shops) from Adventure Cycling Association, a nonprofit, bicycle-travel advocacy group, and pieced together a route that began in Seaside, Ore., and finished near Portland, Maine. While I had a rough idea of my trip's pace--70 to 80 miles per day for roughly two months-- I wasn't locked in to any kind of schedule, having purchased only the one-way plane ticket from Chicago to Portland, Ore. If I became tired, I'd rest; if I got hungry and could find a store, I'd eat. (Noting the scarcity of facilities along certain stretches of road, I did pack a jar of peanut butter and a dozen energy bars.) Weather would be a factor, so I'd follow the forecasts closely. Other than that, I had no preconceived notions of who--or what--I'd encounter along the way. I simply looked forward to a grand adventure. I arrived in Oregon with more than 200 pounds of gear. For those without experience in bike touring, there's one word for this: stupid. After a week of masochistic punishment, my thighs bulged to weight-lifter proportions, so I shipped 80 pounds of stuff home--including 17 pairs of underwear. Two weeks into the ride, I celebrated my birthday outside The Dalles, Ore., near the Columbia River Gorge, a majestic canyon that carves through the Cascade Mountains. Temperatures that day peaked at 107 degrees, and it wasn't until I had cycled 80 miles that I found somewhere to sleep. As I paid for my room, the innkeeper, Pam, mentioned a wine-tasting dinner scheduled for later that evening. Nearly three dozen people were coming to the inn to sample cuts of grilled Washington beef that would be paired with the Northwest's finest vintages. "Count me in," I said, hardly believing my luck as I dragged my weary body upstairs for a nap. It was at least 120 degrees in my third-floor room, and I nearly wept with joy when I saw an air conditioner in the window. I flipped its switch to high, and instantly the power went out. Pam came running up the stairs and knocked on my door: "I told you not to turn on the A/C! We've been having major circuit problems!" "I didn't touch it," I lied, glancing down at my hand, which was now turning the knob silently to the off position. "I'm not sure what happened." (So that's what she was telling me as I filled out the registration card and daydreamed about milk shakes.) Pam hustled downstairs to find candles and flashlights, which she distributed to the other guests; the wine-tasting event was canceled. Sheepishly, I walked to a nearby gas station and shopped for dinner--a can of Beefaroni, which I ate while standing in the parking lot. Happy birthday to me. I quickly fell into a routine, waking up sometime between 6:30 A.M. and 8:00 A.M. Breakfast was simple, usually no more than a banana or energy bar bought the night before. I was sometimes tempted to linger near the motel's continental breakfast spread, especially when it offered waffles. But more often than not, 90 minutes after opening my eyes, I was packed and on the road. Not long into the trip, two things started to stand out: the endless roadside traffic-death memorials, and the many FOR SALE signs scattered among front yards, storefronts, and farms. Although the memorials made me shiver--I tried not to dwell on the risks inherent in a solo bicycle trip--it was the FOR SALE signs that I found most depressing. Anyone who watches the news knows that today's economy is tough on family farmers and small-town shopkeepers. But you tend to forget that sometimes when you live in a city where lots of people with BlackBerrys permanently attached to their palms order $5 cups of coffee without batting an eye. In a rural Minnesota bar, I met a 55-year-old man whose shoe store had gone bankrupt several years back. He'd drifted through odd jobs, and his wife left him after he defaulted on their mortgage. He was earning $6 an hour as a farmhand--and he paid the same $3 for a gallon of gasoline that you and I pay, in order to drive 50 miles round trip to work six days a week. Despite all of this, he seemed genuinely interested to hear about my journey and even insisted on buying me a beer--not allowing me to return the favor. "Welcome to Minnesota," he said, raising his can to mine. I'd break for lunch in the late morning or early afternoon, at whatever facility was most convenient. I tended to favor gas stations, as they allowed me to watch my bike while I shopped--a concern when all of your belongings are visible to passersby--and to talk freely with locals. (It's amazing how many people stop to chat when they see you dripping sweat, gulping Gatorade, and leaning against a bike that's stuffed with over 100 pounds of gear.) Sandwiches or SpaghettiOs were convenient and carb-filled, and relatively easy on my stomach. I once ate a four-burrito lunch at a Montana Taco John's--though I regretted it exactly 42 minutes later. It's safe to say I'll never be allowed anywhere near the E-Z Mart in Havre, Mont., again. Sadly, that wasn't the last of my health problems. At about the 1,500-mile mark, somewhere in North Dakota, I decided to tackle my trip's first century ride--100 miles in a single day. The route was flat and uncomplicated, and I was anxious to gauge my fitness level. After 70 miles, I stopped to rest in the parking lot of a diner. What a great day, I thought to myself, looking out onto the open prairie. I wanted a photograph to capture the moment, so I grabbed my camera and began framing the shot. As I took a step forward, a surge of pain shot up my side. I looked down and saw that a planter, its edges trimmed in razor-sharp rusted metal, had gouged my leg. When you can see muscle and tendon, you know you need a doctor. I quickly bandaged myself and cycled 30 miles to my overnight destination--Williston, N.D.--where I found a hospital. "Quite a flapper you've got there," announced the ER doctor as he surveyed the deep V shape carved into my shin. He expressed interest in my trip, and we chatted as he attended to the wound. One tetanus shot, 10 stitches, and a 14-hour nap later, I was back in business. My appetite, thanks to all the cycling, was limitless. In Walla Walla, Wash., for example, I ate two large pizzas--plus a salad, a pitcher of Coke, and a slice of apple pie--in one sitting. At the next table were four teenagers who shared a medium pizza. One of them asked me to autograph his menu after I'd finished. I loved the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets that popped up everywhere (I stopped at two in North Dakota alone), but with the quantity of food I was consuming, I'm not sure the restaurant managers loved me back. Almost every night, I treated myself to an ice cream at a Dairy Queen or convenience store. And believe it or not, I was still losing weight. Labor Day morning, in Petoskey, Mich., I awoke with searing abdominal cramps, my body scrunched in the fetal position. No amount of bad shrimp lo me in could produce this kind of discomfort. "Kidney stone," explained the doctor at the local hospital. "A big one, too." My bike trip came to a temporary halt; I'd need to pass the stone. Based on its size and location, this could happen in one of two ways: Either I'd pee it out, or I'd undergo surgery. When I learned that the latter would require a "fiber-optic instrument inserted into the penis," I asked directions to the nearest drinking fountain--I'd pass the stone myself. As far as I'm concerned, my urethra is exit-only. One week and 400 gallons of water later, nothing. Another exam indicated that I was developing a mild kidney infection, so surgery was necessary. Fortunately, the stone was retrieved easily. But I still had to recover for another week before getting back in the saddle. Being waylaid in Michigan for two weeks turned out to be a blessing. It recharged my batteries, providing me with an even greater appreciation for the remainder of my trip--not to mention Class II narcotics. I reached the Atlantic Ocean just south of Portland, Maine, on the 73rd day of my journey, roughly 3,800 miles from my starting point. (My odometer had broken somewhere in Minnesota.) I laid my bike down near the surf, my mind racing. I'd anticipated the moment for weeks, wondering how I'd feel upon seeing the Atlantic. Despite more than 10 weeks of cycling by myself day after day, standing on the deserted stretch of beach was the first time I truly felt alone. My mind immediately flooded with memories. I thought about the young woman I had met at an archery range in rural Wisconsin who was sharpening her bow-handling skills in preparation for hunting season (I had stopped to watch, intrigued). And the Oregon man traveling with his young grandsons, whom I met at a state park campground. We dined together under the stars, and his grandsons helped me load my gear the following morning, running after my bike for hundreds of yards, shouting encouragement as I pulled away. Of course there was also the drunk Montana guy who, while sitting next to me at a ramshackle saloon, decided to lecture me about race and religion. I surreptitiously made sure my necklace was tucked safely under my T-shirt. It had a pendant on it representing the Jewish symbol for life. If he had asked about it, I'd have pretended to be a mathematician and claimed it was the symbol for pi. The America I'd seen included a patchwork of faces and stories that continues, even 18 months after my return home, to make an impression. I was welcomed wherever I went and never heard a harsh word directed my way--though God knows how hard people may have laughed when I was out of earshot.

    Chicago

    Hot Doug's: Corner shops throughout the city sell hot dogs "dragged through the garden" (with mustard, pickles, relish, peppers, and more). But the wiener cognoscenti head to Hot Doug's for haute dogs, including those made with exotic meats such as rabbit, boar, and gator--plus duck-fat fries on Fridays and Saturdays only. 3324 N. California Ave., Avondale, 773/279-9550, closed Sun., hot dogs from $1.50 Lula Café: The bohemian alternative to starchy fine dining, Lula Café focuses on organic and local seasonal ingredients, and even holds popular Monday-night farm dinners with purveyors from the area. They're an incredible bargain at $24 for three courses. 2537 N. Kedzie Blvd., Logan Square, 773/489-9554, closed Tues., entrées from $13 Spacca Napoli: Chicagoans take pride in deep-dish, but recently, they've discovered the crispy goodness of thinner-crust Neapolitan pies. At Spacca Napoli, people queue up for the chance to order funghi (mushroom) and quattro formaggi (four cheese) pizzas that are cooked to perfection in an Italian-made, oak-burning oven. 1769 W. Sunnyside Ave., Ravenswood, 773/878-2420, closed Mon. and Tues., pizzas from $8 Hopleaf: Leaving deep-fried fare to every other corner bar, Hopleaf takes beer and food pairings seriously. Its mighty collection of Belgian beers--around 100--complements a menu of moules frites (a bucket of steamed mussels and fries accompanied by aioli dipping sauce), salt-cod croquettes, and veal sweetbreads. 5148 N. Clark St., Andersonville, 773/334-9851, entrées from $15 Avec: Next to his marquee restaurant, Blackbird, celebrated chef Paul Kahan runs a more casual spin-off that serves the kind of small-plate Mediterranean fare he seeks when he punches out: mixed olives, homemade salami, blood-sausage pizza, braised octopus. The first-come, first-served communal tables mean strategic diners snag seats before 6 p.m. 615 W. Randolph St., West Loop, 312/377-2002, plates from $5 West Town Tavern: Good-time Charlies past their beer-pounding prime dream of a tavern like West Town: exposed brick walls, a vintage oak bar, a well-priced wine list, and a chef who knows how to do gussied-up comfort food--from a cheese ball flavored with, among other things, Worcestershire sauce, cayenne pepper, brown sugar, and cumin, to a satisfying zinfandel-braised pot roast. 1329 W. Chicago Ave., West Town, 312/666-6175, closed Sun., entrées from $18

    Bangkok at a Price That's Right

    REFLECTIONS 'Hood: Soi Ari, in the northern part of the city. It's an up-and-coming area that still has a distinctly Thai flavor. Artsy cafés jostle for space with traditional noodle shops. First Impression: A celebration of camp--its exterior is painted shocking pink--Reflections blazed the trail for Bangkok's thriving boutique-hotel scene when it opened in October 2004. The lantern-lit pool area is still a hotspot. Smartly dressed locals meet there for after-work cocktails. The Rooms: Owner Anusorn Ngernyuang's artist friends decorated the 33 rooms. The Taj Mahal is painted red and has silk lanterns, gauze curtains, and doorways cut in the shape of Mughal arches. Freak Show features graffiti-covered orange walls, spray-painted couches, and Japanese vinyl toys. Plus: If you fall in love with the pint-size, pink Venus de Milo in your room, buy it. Much of the quirky furniture and accessories is for sale. Minus: In a few cases, form trumps function. The Post Industrial room is cool-looking but too austere to be comfortable. Details: 81 Soi Ari, Phaholyothin 7 Rd., 011-66/2-270-3344, reflections-thai.com, from $80, includes breakfast. PHRANAKORN NORNLEN 'Hood: Phra Nakorn, a section of Old Bangkok with Buddhist temples and ramshackle wood houses. Khao San Road is a backpacker hangout. First Impression: With a quiet location, lush garden, and unhurried service, Phranakorn Nornlen has evoked the slow pace of rural life since late 2005. The manager, Barisara Mahakayi, is passionate about creating peaceful surroundings for her guests. The Rooms: Rooms put recycled materials to good use, like the terra-cotta pots that have been turned into sinks. Beds are on traditional wooden platforms and dotted with colorful silk throw pillows, and pastel walls are painted with murals of lotuses, birds, and trees. Plus: The hotel supports the community by limiting services. There's no laundry, for example: You're directed to shops nearby. Minus: There are lots of mosquitoes in the garden, especially right after the rainy season (June to October). Details: 46 Soi Thewet 1, Krung Kasem Rd., 011-66/2-628-8188, phranakorn-nornlen.com, from $60, includes breakfast. THE EUGENIA 'Hood: Sukhumvit, one of Bangkok's main drags. Restaurants and condos are cheek by jowl with girlie bars and souvenir stalls. First Impression: Opened in March 2006, the Eugenia exudes unapologetic nostalgia for the days of the British Raj (even though Thailand is the only Southeast Asian country never colonized by a European power). There are game trophies, a tiger-skin rug, and sepia-colored maps. The Rooms: The 12 suites are furnished with antiques, including hand-beaten copper tubs and four-poster beds. Modern amenities include flat-screen TVs, free broadband, and well-stocked minibars. Several rooms overlook the courtyard and swimming pool. Plus: You can pay to be chauffeured around in one of the owner's vintage Mercedes-Benzes or Jaguars. Minus: The Eugenia can't completely shut out the nuisances of modern life. Next to the hotel are a large construction site and an occasionally smelly canal. Details: 267 Soi 31, Sukhumvit Rd., 011-66/2-259-9011, theeugenia.com, from $163, includes breakfast. ARUN RESIDENCE 'Hood: Rattanakosin Island, home to Wat Pho, the Grand Palace, and the flower market, Pak Klong Talad. First Impression: At the end of a dozy lane of cream-colored row houses that double as stores, the small waterfront property feels removed from modern high-rise Bangkok. The Arun's open lobby is especially inviting, with ceiling fans, comfy armchairs, and a selection of magazines. The Rooms: The five rooms are done in a tasteful colonial style, with clapboard walls and wide-plank floors. All offer spectacular views of the 18th-century Wat Arun temple across the river. The top-floor Arun Suite has a private deck. Plus: Arun's riverside restaurant, the Deck, has earned a following for its Thai-French cuisine. Reservations a must. Minus: The boat traffic on the river is picturesque, but it's also extremely noisy. Details: 36-38 Soi Pratu Nokyung, Maharat Rd., 011-66/2-221-9158, arunresidence.com, from $83, includes breakfast. LUXX HOTEL 'Hood: Near Silom Road, the heart of a bustling business and nightlife district. Office workers in suits crowd the sidewalks during the day, while nightfall brings out tourists and club hoppers. First Impression: In 2005, architect and designer Dusadee Srishevachart gutted two town houses to create a style-conscious look. The result combines Japanese minimalism and Scandinavian functionality. The Rooms: Polished wood, chrome, and glass dominate the 13 rooms; also, expect flat-screen TVs, CD/DVD players, and free Wi-Fi. In suites and studios, the bathroom is partitioned with sliding wall panels, allowing guests to watch TV from the barrel-like tub. Plus: The firm, king-size "beds of heaven" are dressed in crisp linens and down duvets. Minus: Rooms in the back get less natural light--especially those on the second floor, where windows are blocked by a neighboring building. Details: 6/11 Decho Rd., 011-66/2-635-8800, staywithluxx.com, from $93, includes breakfast.

    Follow That Taxi!

    Ever since he started driving a New York City cab in 2001, David Freedenberg has asked his passengers where they like to eat--especially when he drops them off in a neighborhood he doesn't know well. He now has a list that Zagat would envy of 400 restaurants and shops, a book in the works, and a tour called Famous Fat Dave's Five-Borough Eating Tour on the Wheels of Steel. "I get a real kick out of showing someone a hand-piped cannoli," he says. The tours are private and customizable, and cost $100 per hour for up to four passengers, though there's a four-hour minimum (famousfatdave.com). The price covers samplings from about a dozen restaurants and shops in five or more neighborhoods. Pace yourself, as there's no walking it off. After all, Freedenberg's motto is "You do the gorging, I do the driving." Some of Fat Dave's Faves Ess-a-Bagel: "The perfect example of a real New York bagel, often fresh out of the oven." 359 First Ave., Manhattan, 212/260-2252, 70¢ Denino's Pizzeria Tavern: "The mozzarella sticks may actually be better than the pizza." 524 Port Richmond Ave., Staten Island, 718/442-9401, $5.50 Guss' Pickles: "They sell on the sidewalk--the way it's been done for 100 years. The 'new' pickles are where it's at. Five or six of them make a great lunch." 87 Orchard St., Manhattan, 212/334-3616, 70¢ Fratelli's Pizza Café: "The fresh broccoli rabe is just the slightest bit bitter, and so tasty it can carry an entire foot-long hero." 404 Hunts Point Ave., Bronx, 718/542-7340, from $7 Roll-n-Roaster: "Their cheesesteak is best with Cheez Whiz and onions. It rivals any from Philadelphia." 2901 Emmons Ave., Brooklyn, 718/769-6000, from $6 San Hai Jin Mi: "They only speak Korean, but who cares when the beef is marinated for two days before it hits the barbecue?" 36-24 Union St., Queens, 718/539-3274, $10