Excerpts from a Travelogue - Part II
- brsc70
- 3 days ago
- 8 min read
Europe - Fall 2025
Part II - Austria, Hungary, Romania
Another mostly wet day, low clouds, hiding what we know to be breathtaking views of the Austrian hill and mountain countryside. Hallstatt called, of course, and we answered. This small fairytale village nestled tightly between cliffsides and lake, is home to around 700 people and yet hosts over a million visitors a year. And for good reason. It is charming, quaint, medieval, and romantic all at once. Even in the rain. Maybe more so in the rain. On one of the rain breaks we enjoyed a picnic lunch beside the broad expanse of the brooding lake Hallstatter See.
Wet weather does not impede the crowds here. In spite of those crowds, we managed to squeeze ourselves into a coffee shop for a needed afternoon interlude, then bade farewell to this beleaguered beauty.
Eastward ho, further up and further in. Hotel Standlhof Zillertal hosted our party for supper and night in the small Austrian town of Zillertal. Quiet and unassuming, with views of logging operations across the valley, the deep scent of cedar and pine permeated the air. Everything a deep dark green in the gray overcast; an excellent backdrop to the million red and pink petunias gracing the window-boxed porches, patios, and porticos of every home.
Early the next morning on my run through the town I was delighted to find a working dairy, diminutive, Dicken’s-like, in the middle of the village, run by a very busy young couple, their little one sleeping nearby in a pram while they cleaned the stalls. The cows were gone as evidenced by a single manure-splattered track down the otherwise pristine pavement. A nearby field at the edge of town revealed the brown milkers, all contentedly chewing their cuds while glancing in my direction with a bored expression. Carry on everyone, I say, I’m just out looking for pastries and good coffee.
Which we found. A lovely, golden lamp-lit bakery, Der Backer Reutz-Fugen, a 15-minute walk from the hotel. We sipped strong lattes in quiet early morning contemplation, watching the world of an Austrian valley come to life.
Budapest, next stop. Where east meets west. Where the Blue Danube is more than a waltz by Strauss but a wide, bluish gray current that plays host to a hundred river cruises and gives couples something to gaze at while falling in love. Budapest to us is more than one of the most beautiful cities in Europe; rather it is a feeling, an emotion, the melancholy ebb and flow of hopes and dreams.
Budapest is a place we visited many times during our mission term; a place where families flew in, families we hadn’t seen for a year or two or three, a place of excited greetings (and, admittedly, sad goodbyes). A place where there was a Pizza Hut. A place where we would laugh ourselves silly at jetlagged loved ones, while looking over the brightly lit bridges, castles, and the Parliament from the Citadel. Budapest is a place of so many good and cherished memories.
So it was good to be back. We parked and walked. And walked. We left the rain behind us in Austria with strict orders to stay there. Budapest does not need rain; our souls were waterlogged and in need of a good drying. The sun was bright now to match our moods, the skies a deep blue.
Funny, but this time Pizza Hut was not on our itinerary. But goulash was. Fisherman’s Bastion was. The huge market was. We crossed the Chain Bridge, eyed the massive patina-crusted lions guarding the approaches, watching over the thousands of tourists crossing, laughing, posing, taking pictures. The day was warm, and we were sweating now, hungry, time to find a cafe—which we did on the Buda side, way up, on the top of the hill, where we sat outside watching the world go by while we sampled paprika-laced Hungarian fare.
One last stop at the market, one last souvenir, one last delicacy. Oh, and use the lovely clean bathroom in the upper level of the conference hall, a bathroom we don’t have to pay for. That’s right, welcome to Europe. Bathroom breaks don't come cheap. Two Euro or simply tap your credit card. Some are coins only. You don’t have coins? Ah, now you have a problem.
We leave Budapest like so many times before, southeast bound, into the plains, this time on an autobahn. Remember when.
As we near the Romanian border my limbic system kicks in, and I begin rooting around for papers. Border crossing guards love papers, the more the better. Passports, insurance cards, vehicle paperwork, visas. And it’s always handy if one has recently purchased chocolates in Austria or perhaps has a phone card with time remaining.
I rehearse the procedure: first we stop on the Hungarian side and get thoroughly questioned, our passports scrutinized, our faces compared with a sharp and critical glare. Then we wait. Then they come back and who knows, they may require a small payment, like chocolates or a phone card. Once that transaction has taken place we are cleared into Romania – we drive forward about two hundred feet and stop in the line where we may as well shut off the car and wait. Time stops at these crossings. And woe is you if it’s shift change. You may as well get out a picnic lunch, minus the chocolates, of course, which disappeared 200 feet back, and have lunch or supper. When the line does finally move you now face another round of questioning, passport scrutinizing, and facial comparison. (I don’t recall ever having to pay a “tax” on the Romanian side). Then, if all goes well and the car paperwork is in order (like a dozen times before) you are released to head home to Arad, 30 minutes down the road from the border.
I am brought up short from my daydreams and brief trip to the past. Wait, what is this?! We are on an autobahn, approaching the border, and there is nothing here. Nothing but a few ancient and rusting patrol boxes with broken down gates. But this is the border. Welcome to Romania the sign says. We enter the country at 100 kilometers an hour. My brain cannot process this. Something is wrong. What will I do with my passports, my paperwork, who will extort me, who do I give the chocolates to?
Turns out sometime in the last 15 years Romania entered the European Union, and the border is no more. Gone.
I ride in silence then. I begin to realize how different this trip back would be. For one, we don't recognize the area because the new road comes in differently, a way we are totally unfamiliar with. This is very unsettling. We try to achieve equilibrium—is this the city we lived in for over 5 years? But where is it? Everything is turned around, our brains are muddled, confused, we point and question and wonder and muse.
We eventually arrived in Arad Center and finally we recognized a few things. Ah yes, there’s the building and room where we had church. There's the town hall where we finalized our adoptions. There’s McDonalds; whew at least that’s still there. With outside seating now. We are brought back all those years to a time when our once a week visit to the new McDonalds was the highlight of the week.
We found the place where we used to live, different now, remodeled, added on to, different owners. We rang the bell, no one answered. The neighbors answered not. We met a few passersby and questioned them. Yes, they knew who we were looking for and had little tidbits of information for us. Ah, Tante Sofi, she died some years ago; Ah, Dragalescu, he is working in the UK; Ah, Mr. Chera, he lives in Timisoara now, sold the house. Yes, we said sadly, we know. It’s all different now. You can go home, but you can't go back.
And the market. Basically, next door, just past the cathedral, a kaleidoscope of color, smell, and sight. Rows of tables under the awnings, old babushkas in kerchiefs, waiting to sell you their stinky sour cabbages, backyard-fresh apples, cucumbers from their village gardens. Fresh cheeses and milk in glass bottles. Stray dogs running around, arguments in full force, beggars working the aisles, sensory overload. Now? Gone. The market is now an empty square, western European style, funded by the EU, supposedly a restoration and beautification project. We walked slowly in the afternoon sun, as if walking through a cemetery: sad, nostalgic, reminiscent.
Our stay in Arad comprised two full days the highlights of which are difficult to define for me. We spent time trying to find former friends, acquaintances, church members. Some were gone; some did not respond. We did find two men, both church attendees back in the day, one a former member. Both have tragic pasts, in many ways. Both have experienced the difficulties of life in a transitional country coming out of communism; learning capitalism, trying to navigate so much including personal loss that encompasses the engulfing tragedies of divorce, death, betrayals, family breakup, sickness. How does one reconcile the gross unfairness of this life?
We enjoyed our time with them overall. What was interesting is that the conversations have not changed in 25 years. We covered the same subjects that ended in the same conclusions: often an expansive shrug of the shoulders and the words “Ce sa facem?,” in English denoting the idea that there’s nothing to be done about it, or "what can we ever do?"
We then headed further into Romania, revisiting old haunts such as the Hunedoara Castle where we got to sing in the Knight’s Hall again, a memory relived from the past; one I have never forgotten and never will. Of course, visiting the castle back in the day was a lonely venture, through a rather depressing coal town, up a winding hill past the center, and then park the car where you will. Back then, we were often the only visitors. Now? Now you line up, you pay, you buy souvenirs, you read plaques with other visitors. Welcome to the new Romania.
Am I happy for them? Yes, overall, I am. Their quality of life has definitely improved in many ways. They wish to be like the West, and they deserve this as much as anyone. Our perspective is likely selfish: we came to a strange land with so much charm and so much of that charm was based on their ancient way of life. But what we called charm, they called hardship and a burden beyond what most of us can imagine.
The next two days were spent exploring and reacquainting ourselves with the ancient medieval towns of Sighisoara and Brasov, both Transylvanian tourist centers now, both well worth the hype and visit. We drove the Bran-Rucar corridor, through deep gorges, the winding road keeping us on our driving toes.
What more can be said about our Romanian return? To those who know us and know the history I will say this: we enjoyed the company we were with; we enjoyed the places, the beauty for which Romania is known, we enjoyed finding some of the old ways still present back in the hills.
But. Overarching this all was a deep sadness; a sheen of memories singed by trauma, both personal and by proxy, clouded by all the things that came after. Sadness at what could have been, what was, and what is, even though we can help none of it. The poignant memories of hours spent in orphanages, rocking babies, bringing two beautiful little ones home with us to stay. Memories of church members, hard conversations, ultimate bitterness and the parting of ways. Now more than a few of those people lie in Romanian cemeteries, gone from our sight. We missed seeing some of them by just months.
We are quiet, still, silent as we drive. What more can be said or done here? There is a feeling that this may be the last time we will ever see this country. It’s not that there are no good memories here, there are. Many good times. But often those are overshadowed by what is.
With that we say goodbye to this land and head back towards Hungary once again, on through Slovenia to our next stop: Croatia.
Part III coming soon...
Tears came to my eyes while reading the last few paragraphs. I can only imagine that happening to me someday. My dad came to the Church because of the mission in Belgium. Of the 5 members who joined and dozen other interestied attendees, none are in the Church anymore. One passed away, faithfully, but the other four are all discouraged or deceived. I would like to go back and help continue the work, but I know it won't all be that rewarding, in one sense. Yet, isn't that what God requires of us, simply to keep the light of Truth alive and take it to people, even though they probably will reject it? By the way, my mother used to…