Dearest Helen, (Friday 29th July, near Câmpina) I do hope you're well in Istanbul. The media has dropped all talk of post-coup anything, and people are just about back to daily life again, it seems (how can you ever really 'go back to normal'?). Meanwhile this letter is about a week late, it being last Friday I promised it you. Since we talked then, I've seen sheepdogs - Romanian shepherd dogs that look like wolves crossed with bears crossed with collies -, got over a mountain, networked like crazy and seen my family. Romania is putting out feelers towards keeping me, even as I work towards her borders. I suppose this is a post about Home. Home as a too-heavy rucksack carried over a mountain, an impediment to movement; Home as boots, the road; Home as your monthlong break in Australia, and your return to the Istanbul I know you love; Home too as a cabana 2,500 metres above sea level, bunked down in a room prepared for 36 people, width no more than fifty centimetres to call my own; Home in Brașov with my mum and sister and how we terrorized the streets; Home as a long-loved monster of a City far away from me struck by power games and political chokehold. They are all home, or if they are not we are still searching. The forward and upward motion towards finding a home two days ago was more than I had bargained for. Tuesday had started a trek, ill-organised by me, which took us into the mountains and then out again to Râșnov, over black runs on ski fields (barked at by sheepdogs, rain came down as we started the descent of course) and up a stream where I, childish, fell and skinned my knee and shin. I don't have the requisite coordination for this! Second day in, we walked up... and up. Through forests - green deciduous first, then pines and firs as the air got heavier. (My bag got heavier.) Eventually, we emerged in a hanging valley - glacial landscapes, oh what magic they hold - so green, such Swiss charm, so unthreatening, and learnt that the choice of ways up to our one-night-home was either the summer route (longer, danger of avalanches!), or the winter route (short, steep: we could see just how steep if we strained our eyes southwestward). After water refills (three litres to bring with me on the climb - peaks and plateaux have no water sources), we headed up the valley. Green at first, I wasn't troubled, and even as I saw the path heading more steeply than I'd comprehended earlier up into the clouds with a nice dose of scree and some rocks I saw no way of hauling my bag-bulk up around (it was raining again now; lessons in coincidence - if it can happen, of course it will, and I should be able to translate that into Turkish). In short, we climbed it, H. with apparent ease, I with clenched teeth and terror as the rain made handholds harder to keep and scree more likely to come skittering down. Took us fortyfive minutes all told, and looking down I still can't believe I got up it. H. has photos - I have none. A word on my hiking partner, H. I was clueless - she was graceful; I misrepresented myself somewhat - she tactfully took over and nudged our hike in the right direction; she told tales - I listened to her eloquent storytelling; I fell over walking up a stream - she helped me up a difficult rock. In short, I owe her somewhat. What a travel companion - a wonder. And we had a good three days together, despite my ineptitude, culminating in a meal bought on empty stomachs made and eaten in the kitchen of our pensiune in the town of Sinaia, joined by yet another phenomenal woman, the lovely N., who I still have to get to know. And will, I have no doubt. Shortly, we made it up the summit of Mount Omu, which may or may not be the ninth highest peak in Romania, and this information is neither here nor there. We (in our search for Home) are looking for the human elements. So we find in the cabana at the summit, cold people, card-players, gender studies graduates, silent but friendly Swedes, and rest, that all-important ingredient. Rest came as the sun set, as it must in the mountains, and we, packed firmly into our bunks, had no choice whether to resist or not. Despite my aching feet I fell too, eventually, gratefully. And morning. And the sunrise. And our descent to Sinaia. I could describe all this to you, but it'll lose much in the telling, and the pine forests won't tell you their smell, and the frustrations of maps not matching waymarks won't come through, the small terrors of crossing fallen track, the threat of a pinching blister on the left instep, the gratitude for a shared piece of capsicum, the first snag of wifi on arrival in town, the meeting of a friend of a friend in a strange town. These things, maybe all are elements of Home. As I recall them now, at least they will be carried with me, and that's a homemaking of sorts, isn't it? Their formation into stories of their own a welcome mat thrown down? So be well in your Istanbul, give the beautiful cat babies(-no-longer) a hug from me - and I'll see you in a month back there. Keep a corner of your Home for me! With love -- B.
