In the whole week that I cycled across Hungary, I raised a small cheer from a woman at a bus stop just outside Budapest and a wave from a single construction worker a few days later. That was it. Within two minutes of crossing the border into Romania I'd already received more roadside greetings than that. And on my first day in Romania I made two new friends too.
I'd been stood at the side of the road munching on a mini pizza when a young cyclist came past. He pointed ahead of himself, asking me in which direction I was going, I nodded and he continued. Once I restarted cycling I found him waiting for me just up the road. We cycled the next thirty kilometres together towards Arad.
Martin spoke a little English although the conversation couldn't flow too well with one of us cycling behind the other on a busy main road. First I learned that he's a painter, although I'm not sure in what sense, artistic or decorator. Then there was an odd exchange when he seemed to say that I have to be careful of the police in Romania but I would be safe with him because his woman is a policewoman. Or maybe I misunderstood. It's hard to imagine that he'd think his own mum to be dodgy.
Not far from Arad he was turning off and we stopped and had a proper face to face chat. I was a little embarrassed that after preparing a very useful Survival Hungarian crib sheet, I'd done nothing at all for Romanian. Martin taught me the words for thank you, hello, one, two, three and, most importantly, beer. Luckily, all but 'thank you' seem very close to Italian and I've already had to survive that language. He gave me some biscuits, enigmatically told me that there was a bulletin out about me (no, I've no idea either) and then he was off.
An hour or so later I rolled up to my destination, a campsite in the tiny village of Minis. There I met Cornel, the site owner, a Romanian with a Dutch wife. Along with other efforts of Cornel's family they run this campsite as a charity with profits going to the poorest Romanian families.
I was low on provisions and asked Cornel if there was a nearby shop. "Yes, just up the road." And it's open on a Sunday? "Ah, it's Sunday. No then." Well, I had some noodles in my panniers. They would have to do. But while I was setting up the tent he came over and told me that he and his daughter were going in his car to a cheap restaurant that evening and, given my lack of food, would I like to come too. So I did. And perhaps he regretted it. Because while his daughter played with her phone, I asked him questions. Lots of questions. I think he liked to talk though. I mean, there were no short answers. And in the end I'd finished my food and he was still only halfway through his. I figured I'd better stop the interrogation for a bit before his dinner went cold. But he wasn't done with his information. Back at the campsite, over a shot of his home-made palinka (plum brandy, close to 60% alcohol), we perused the map and he pointed out some places I might want to see - such as the real Dracula town rather than the fake tourist one. He also pointed out a better, quieter route for the following day's ride. Having seen the state of some of the roads on my way into Romania, I asked him if they would be asphalted. "Oh yes," he replied confidently.
The next day I headed off the scary, truck-filled main road on to the secret network of backroads I would otherwise have avoided. And yes, they were asphalted. For the first ten kilometres. And then they weren't. For the next twenty kilometres they were dust and stones and potholes, and in their danker parts, mud. This would be fine on a mountain bike but it's not much fun on a heavily-loaded, thin-wheeled road bike. "Whenever I return from the Netherlands to Romania, I'm always so angry about how terrible the roads are here," Cornel had lamented the night before. I know how he feels.
