“Stop the car!”
I was sick as hell. The Carpathians are unforgiving in the winter. We had just come up from Sighişoara, the boyhood home of Vlad Țepeș (affectionately known as Dracula) and I couldn’t get myself right.
Part of it was the Ţuică, fruit alcohol that my travel-fatigued liver couldn’t understand. Part of it was slamming along potholes the size of mortars in a Soviet built Dacia.
“But there is nowhere here,” my driver sagely advised like a giant ungreen Yoda.
“Stop!” I bellowed.
We skidded to a halt and I tumbled out.
The cemetery was waiting.
I miss it all now. Adventure is someone else going through hell and now I have become someone else to myself.
Tonight I’m writing a book proposal about the happy cemetery. If you are an agent, give me a shout. I’ll make you a superstar — trust me, baby.
The people of Săpânţa know how to die. One side of the grave marker shows the deceased in the full stream of life; the other, floating on the surface. A jolly poem often accompanies each. As baseball, there is no crying in Săpânţa.