Cheile Bicazului

Here I am again, on my way to see grandmother, like every year for the past 30 years. I am driving through Bicaz Gorges, the road a narrow corridor winding at the bottom of the dark grey monoliths, the spring humming on my right. It comes from somewhere above, high in the peak, washing down on the mountain wall. Just like 30 or 10 years ago. Just like forever. I say hello to the spring, to the mountains, to the humming, to this divine and peaceful place. Hello. I missed you all. Do you remember me?

As a child, Bicaz Gorges were the most exciting part of our trips to grandma. The grey, humbling rocks, the huge cross on the highest peak, the cascade falling and the wind humming in the canyon were always an excitement, especially for us kids, amazed by nature’s might. I felt like a small ant running around those little wooden shops where Hungarian craftsmen sold their souvenirs: linen blankets and coats, wooden spoons and flutes, ceramic bowls, and plates, Dracula wooden masks, all little pieces of handmade artistry.

The tiny brown booths were stringed on both sides of the road, just like today. They looked identical, like doll houses, where real people were selling funny gadgets.

I decide to stop for five minutes and take in the view. Everything seems frozen in time. I walk from shop to shop just watching the craftsmen sell and the tourists bargaining for a vase, or a lamp, or a flute or a ceramic. All beautifully painted, vividly coloured miniatures with complicated patterns.

I get in the car and continue my journey. I drive past the shops, the hikers and tourists. I pass by the Red Lake. I stop again, get out of the car and look down to the still waters, old chunks of trees spiking through the surface. It formed almost 200 years go when a huge mountain peak slid and barred the river upstream. When I was three, my parents took me on the lake in a small wooden fisherman’s boat. I was sick, coughing like a mule, almost suffocating. I had caught the illness from a boy I used to play with at my grandmother’s.

Even though it’s summer, the mountain air is chilly and it makes me shiver. I get back in the car. I continue my journey. I drive past pine woods and try to pay attention to the narrow, road, winding in front. On my left there is nothing but abyss. After passing my driving test, I was always scared to cross these gorges alone. I would imagine the car falling down into the chasm. I would panic at the thought of the car slipping backwards into the emptiness.

My palms sweat and I try to think about my grandmother, all my relatives waiting for my arrival. The 90 degrees curbs still frighten me. My dad used to sit next to me, encouraging me, teaching me how best to take the windings in the road. I am still scared, but I have to do it. I imagine that my dad sits next to me, guiding me. I try to take in all the wild beauty surrounding me and not to think about being a few hundred meters high from safe ground.

I remember my mum singing to me to ease my car sickness and the long hours drive. I still remember the lines of the only two songs she always had to sing. I start humming just to keep my mind busy while I am passing the gorges. And try to think about tonight. I am going to see my grandmother. She used to cook ball de neige every time I came to visit. i can already feel the sweet taste of vanilla and milk...