Communing with the natives

We spend the day visiting several sites in Sighet – We see the City Hall, the Sephardi synagogue, Elie Wiesel’s childhood home – now a museum – and visit the “Old-New” Synagogue. We end our day at the train station, the site of deportation of thousands of Jews from the region.

Bust of Elie Wiesel

We enter the station and note that outside is a table populated by several Romanian men drinking and loudly enjoying each other’s company. Inside the foyer, we assemble round Jeremy who gives us some insight into the deportation from the region, and this station in particular. I take out my phone from my bag as I’m listening, ready to take some photos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The station is just up the road from our hotel so most of us choose to walk back, having spent most of the day on the coach between sites. As we walk, we note that this must be the nice side of town. There are some impressive homes here. In the garden of one, I notice a tableau of figures – not exactly gnomes as we know them, but probably Romania’s equivalent. I stop to take a photo.

 

When we get back to the hotel, I decide to treat myself to an ice cream. I put my backpack on the table and proceed to look for my wallet among all the day’s detritus – raincoat, reading material, water bottle, battery pack, iPod (yes I still use my iPod Classic), tissues … etc. I can not find my wallet. I look in all the extraneous pockets that back packs seem to have nowadays. Nothing. People around me are insisting it must be there.  No. It really isn’t.

I am not particularly worried. It’s not my main wallet with cards and ID, it’s my ‘local’ wallet, the one I use on holiday for local currency. It contains no more than about £40 worth of Romanian lei. But still, it’s annoying. I don’t like losing things.

Romanian garden gnomes

I decide it must have fallen out when I took the picture of the gnomes, and embark on the ten minute walk back there. As I am walking, I am reminding myself how ridiculous a pursuit this is. How many people must have walked along this road since I was there half an hour ago? If I did drop it there, there is no way it will still be there. Sure enough, I get to the house in question; it’s not there. I mill around for a bit, looking at the grass verge, checking in the gutter, looking through the fence. Not there.

I start to head back.

Looking back, I realise that the station is only a short walk and decide that I must explore all avenues. I don’t for a second expect to find it there, but I’d forever wonder if I didn’t explore the notion that it was.

The plaque commemorating the deportation

I get to the station and start to look under and around the parked cars where I had taken a photo of the plaque outside. Of course it’s not there. 

The drinking men outside the station attempt to engage me in conversation. Unsuccessfully, because my Romanian extends to ‘hello’ and ‘thank you.’  Eventually, one of them says enquiringly “Telefon?”. “No”, I say, it’s my wallet. They all have a huge question mark over their heads. I make the international sign for money, rubbing my thumb against my fingers, palm up. Immediately a sign of comprehension from one of my interlocutors. He’s a large man, now standing imposingly next to me and offering me sympathy in Romanian. Much banter ensues whilst he (I think) explains to his mates that I have lost my wallet. They all get up and take me into the station and start looking for it. What a futile operation, but at least I am communing with the natives and having something of a cultural experience.

I head outside to the platform while they are all scouting round the foyer and then I hear my large companion shouting jubilantly and there is raucous response from his friends. I turn around to see him pointing at the floor under the radiator by the window. The same window I had stood by to listen to Jeremy talking.

There, unmistakably, is my wallet, sitting forlornly awaiting my return. He gesticulates that I should pick it up, seemingly not wanting to be party to any crime if the money turns out not to be in it. I do so, thanking him effusively in my only conversation piece – “mulțumesc, mulțumesc”, thank you, thank you.

My friend, now extremely proud of himself, indicates I should open it to check if the money is there. I do, and it was.

Whatever reputation Romanians may have, these men were lovely – friendly, honest and really helpful.