Gypsy Town, Transylvania

In Sighisoara, I came back to the hostel after dinner and a few drinks to find the owners (Nick and Anita) having drinks themselves with a couple of friends. One was Nick's half/step(?) sister (Ramul) and her Scottish husband (Graham), visiting from Scotland. Ramul was drunk. I accepted an invitation to join them for a drink despite being exhausted. A lively hour of banter, with Nick's sister dominating the conversation in a slightly overbearing way, sometimes crude and demeaning. They were all heading out the following day to a friend's BBQ. The hostel was to be closed that day and night. I hadn't decided where I was going the following day so jumped at the opportunity to tag along with them. Ramul took a liking to me.

Departed at 1pm, much earlier than I'd anticipted, with two cases of beer and a lot of meat. This was going to be a long day. We took a taxi the 25km to the tiny village that Fabritsio lived in, an Italian guy whom had moved to Romania about six years ago with his wife as he was fed up with Italy. He had purchased his very modest house for EUR11,000 in a village of perhaps only 100-150 people. He worked from home as a travel organiser for Italians, but in a previous life had been a chef.

When we arrived he was making pasta, rolling it out with a massive pin, like mama used to do it. Fettuccini bolognese. Excellent pasta and what looked like a basic sauce tasted superb. He even had some Parmesan Reggiano. Of course he did.

After our late lunch we all walked the length of the village (5 minutes) to the farmer at the end of the road, a friend of Fabritsio's. Everybody knew Fabritsio (hard not to) and stopped to talk to him. The local kids adored him. The creek dissecting the village was barely flowing, an unusual occurrence. As we neared the farm, dogs began to bark. More dogs. These were Romanian sheep dogs, big farkers....take your leg off if given half a chance. Farmer Pat (couldn't catch his name) cussed at the dogs and they were all good. He had built his home and started a small farm (pigs and goats and some chickens) to provide an income. He produced goat's milk cheese that he sold at market (we sampled some he had made that morning - brilliant! Farmer Pat said it gets better by day three. How was that possible???) They were only just surviving.

Evening was upon us and we still needed to get some hot coals for the BBQ. This would take a while. Extra pressure was felt as an Australian was in company - apparently we all light fires. An hour and a half later we had coals and an awful lot of meat to cook, no vegies or salad. The mit (mitch) went on first, then the sausages, then the chicken legs, then the pork grillers, and if you hadn't exploded....then pork fillet.

I had started to feel a bit crook late afternoon. My guts were hurting. Didn't know how it was going to end. Drinking and eating copious amounts wasn't too sensible. I held back. Then the polenca came out. Fabritsio's own pear brandy. Clear and highly alcoholic. It wasn't as bad as I expected. Quite good for rocket fuel. Downed most of one large shot. Couldn't stomach another despite constant protests. Just wasn't up to it that night unfortunately. Round after round of polenca was drunk. Fabritsio was hammered. He tried really hard to talk to me in English but the words wouldn't come out. He normally doesn't talk in English as he thinks his English is so bad. Nick's step sister was smashed again. Her husband was gone too. Nick was drunk and holding himself well. Anita had to work the following day so was behaving herself, like me. We wound up around 2am (I think) and left Nick's sister and Graham to sleep of their hangovers at Fabritsio's.

Farmer Pat and Anita

Anita, Nick and Fabritsio

The pigs