I'm Not Lost, I'm Looking for Lunch: Romania

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“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a cup of coffee and ends with dinner – and there is a sandwich tucked in there somewhere in the middle.” My version of Lao Tzu

After walking more than 4,000 miles over eight years – yes, I had to conduct extensive field research for this – I’m still not entirely sure which part I like most about hiking.

Is it the coffee in the morning?
The lunch break in the afternoon?
The shower immediately after finishing the hike?
Or dinner?

It’s a toss-up really, and depends heavily on the food options and the weather that day.

All I know for certain is that it’s definitely not the walking.

I only do that part to balance out all the food I consume so I don’t eventually weigh as much as one of those tiny homes on wheels.

Traveling with Slim Jim isn’t exactly helping my weight-loss issues either.

Apparently, his friends call him Ciccio (Cheech-Cho) which means “fat man” in Italian…he is a lot of things, but fat is not one of them. At least not as long as I’ve known him. He swears he was much “heavier” in his youth and the name has stuck.

Good thing mine didn’t – Poops McGee.

Today, my favorite part of the hike was the sandwich I ate on our lunch break.

Let me tell you about it because I didn’t take a photo. I was too busy salivating as I waited for Massimo to get it out of his bag (hurry up old man!) and then I began stuffing my face and savoring every bite only to realize…dammit, no photos of this “gourmet meal.”

Rookie blogger mistake.

The look on my face says it all, really.

On our way out of town, we stopped at a gas station for breakfast.

Don’t judge. Resources are limited in these parts.

It was the breakfast of Champions. Champions of what…I’m still not sure.

Massimo was thrilled to have an “Italian-style” breakfast. Cappuccino and a pastry. ☕️🥐

Seriously, he complains about the lack of “dolce” every morning. I have to remind him his “Italian is showing” and he needs to keep an open mind and adapt to other ways of life. Not everyone can be “Italian.”

Pizza, pasta, mafia. 🍕🍝🤌🇮🇹

It’s the only time of the day I ever witness him being grumpy. Thankfully, he usually shakes his grouchiness approximately three minutes after he consumes whatever is placed in front of him. That must be the precise amount of time it takes for the food to reach his stomach from his mouth.

Food is apparently his emotional support animal. Hey, maybe something we have in common.

Childhood trauma?

I digress.

The gas station had a little café attached to it with not only coffee and pastries but sandwiches as well.

Game changer.

Most of our sandwiches on the trail are made from the leftover meats, cheeses and vegetables from the enormous platters of food we’re given at breakfast.

Which is perfectly fine.

But after days (and days) of eating variations of the same ingredients, the ability to actually choose a sandwich felt like winning the lottery.

Massimo selected one that looked much more European than mine…meaning it was made with focaccia-style bread…with what appeared to be all the same ingredients we’ve been eating.

What are you doing, man?

As for me, I went the opposite direction. I asked the clearly incompetent man behind the counter – I say this lovingly because he was obviously meant for another line of work – for a tuna sandwich on white bread.

And not just any white bread.

I wanted the super soft kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth and leaves little doughy balls of ooey-gooey goodness in that tiny space between your teeth and your gums.

The kind that tastes like childhood (the good part) and reminds you of things like drinking from the garden hose on hot summer days.

My little pocket of heaven was filled with crunchy iceberg lettuce, red onions, capers, tuna and a generous slathering of mayonnaise.

I’m aware that carrying a mayonnaise-and-fish sandwich around in a hot backpack for three or four hours is a bold culinary decision.

So far, however, no food poisoning.

I’ll keep you posted.

When I tell you that the first bite of the soft, squishable white bread, the crisp lettuce, and that little zing of capers hitting my tongue, was not one of the best things I’ve eaten on this trail so far, I’d be lying.

It was glorious.

It felt like I had just been released from prison and this was my first meal outside the bars.

I was so happy.

I think I temporarily lost all my other senses.

My vision became blurry.

Massimo’s nonstop talking suddenly sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

Wah wah wah wah wah.

I almost slipped into a coma of pure sandwich-induced joy right there, sitting on my ugly big blue poncho.

It really is the little things.

…

There was some drama yesterday that I didn’t tell you about because I wasn’t sure how it was going to play out.

Massimo would either end up a hero or a zero and I didn’t want to jump the gun.

Rewind to two nights ago.

We were staying in a village – if a handful of houses and no other facilities but two churches and a children’s playground can technically be considered a village – in a house that was specifically renovated for the Via Transilvanica.

The VT team has worked closely with each community along the trail to make sure there is at least one accommodation available every so often along the way. Sometimes choices are extremely limited but anything is better than camping near bear infested areas.

Since this particular place is barely a village, they asked the local priest and his family, who live in Blaj, the larger town we had passed through, to operate everything.

Of course, most of the actual work falls to the priest’s wife. Typical.

Yes, this particular denomination, the Greek Catholic Church, allows priests to be married.

There was even a photo of Pope Leo hanging in the hallway.

When we arrived, our lovely, kind, and beautiful, hostess looked exhausted.

In addition to managing this accommodation – which means daily laundering the sheets and towels, cooking, cleaning, and basically everything else, despite living 30 minutes away – she also has a full-time job as an accountant and two little girls to take care of…and probably her husband as well.

She was an incredibly gracious host, but I could tell she had not exactly dreamed of this career path as hostess for some smelly hikers. Just doing the Lord’s work.

So yesterday, about an hour or so into our walk, we realized that our two bandanas were left behind in the washing machine.

Denial and then devastation set-in quickly.

I’m not going to say who did the laundry but this anonymous person’s first name begins with an “M” and ends with an “imo”.

I felt terrible about calling our hostess to ask how we could get them back but clearly not bad enough not to call.

So I made Massimo do it.

During our stay she told us that there is a man who drives to the next town (where we were headed) on the VT every day and if I wasn’t feeling well that he would drive me. I’d just need to be ready to leave by 7 am.

I passed on the offer because I’m starting to feel better and I really do want to walk this trek…mostly for the sandwiches, snacks, and potential weight-loss.

So when Massimo crafted his WhatsApp message, he made sure to mention this man with the suggestion that maybe he could deliver the bandanas on his way to work.

Lucky for M-imo it all worked out. Otherwise, I might have made him walk back to get them.

I mean, it is my favorite item in my bag.

And in my defense, I haven’t been on my A-game during this whole medical delirium. Had I been fully functional, there is absolutely no way I would have left my favorite little green pocket square behind.

So there you have it.

Just his luck. He came out a hero in this little saga.

As usual.

Massimo, knight in shining armor saves the day.

Again.

For now.

On our lunch break, we also ran into two Romanian hikers we met when we stayed at the priest’s house two nights ago. They are brother and sister and have been walking one week of the VT every year since 2020.

They are also serious long-distance runners and have completed five races already this year including a marathon, a couple of half marathons, and a couple of 30 km runs – some of them were even in Italy.

I don’t know what I thought was so funny…but clearly I was the only one who thought so.

The highlight of the hike – even more than the sandwich – was watching all of these squealing, snorting pigs (my spirit animal) come running towards us believing we had food to share. I hated to break the news to them that my sandwich was off limits. I had zero interest in sharing my food today. Try again tomorrow.

Sorry guys, I’m a pig too. Oink. 🐷

Much love & gratitude. Namaste 🙏

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What the hell is this? Can anyone tell me what is in this Coke if there is no caffeine, sugar, or calories?

Water?

Poison?

What’s the point if they have removed all the joy from this Coca-Cola? Isn’t this exactly why people drink soda – for the caffeine and cocaine…I meant, sugar?

I mean that’s why I do.

Calories are just a bonus.