Quick short update

After a whole week of nothin', I know.

We are off to the local monthly market in Odorheiu, which one person says is amazing and another says is just a farmers' market, but I'm excited nonetheless. I already picked up some jams and honeys (potentially for some family members--get excited!) at the LARAC-esque festival we found last weekend while we were in town, and now I get to pick around some more and maybe some local crafts. Very sweet stuff, it sounds like.

And then we'll be taking the 11-something train into Sighisoara to go to Romania's largest medieval festival! I am well excited for this. It's going to be quite a lot of fun, especially with this group. (A good chunk of the people here are history majors/history specific and many focus on medieval Europe, so it'll be fun.)

In unrelated, shocking news, I really like mornings here in Transylvania. I even don't mind the birds! Okay, so sometimes the cow bells and the constant mooing just outside my window can set my teeth on edge, especially if they wake me up when I don't want to be woken up, but the sunlight is soft and a warm counterpoint to the cool temperature and the windows are thrown wide onto the world. It's lovely.

dig up her bones but leave the soul alone

New site! New site new site new site!

If you didn't catch that, we have a new dig site and it's fantastic. It's a thirty minute public bus ride away, through towns and fields and hills, to a small neighborhood and then another six minute tromp into someone's backyard to our little grove of trees and rocks.

We're excavating burials inside actual ruined church walls (instead of the last site, which was more or less 'the walls are over there' with some careless hand waving), which are encircled by pretty trees and bounded by the neighbor's garden on one side. The trees provide enough shade, except for the hour surrounding lunch, and there's some nice breeze depending on where you sit.

I had no idea what to expect when I came here, but this peaceful ruin of a church is the closest we've come to the pencil sketch I had floating in the back of my mind. Digging up bodies in Transylvania doesn't have to mean disturbing their eternal rest looking for vampire-like wounds; it's laying questions to rest while we unearth history that even the locals find fuzzy.

I have a few more blog ideas percolating, so I'm going to go do some more writing. Enjoy the song Bones by MS MR, which is in the running for the Transylvania 2013 theme song, purely for the title lyric.

The Faceless Gargoyle: Brasov, Dracula, and the Carpathians

Part Two: Brasov and the Carpathians

So, technically, I'm doing this in a bit of a flip-floppy order. We descended upon Brasov late Friday night, and drove through the Carpathians all day on Saturday, and then spent Sunday exploring Brasov a bit more. But I wanted to get Bran Castle and Poenari out of the way before the more descriptiony type stuff.

So let's talk about the Carpathian Mountains. I am a writer, yes? I scribble things down in my journal and focus on the words used and try desperately to describe the color of the sky and the feeling of rain on my skin and all those sorts of poetical things. I get asked questions about this note-taking habit of mine quite a bit and my response is, because I'm a writer. Yet, when it comes to the Carpathians, words are...scarce. Fuzzy. I have lines and lines in my journal where I start a description and then strike it out because it's not right.

In Brasov, we walked through the Black Church, a stunning piece of faith and utter devotion right in the heart of the city, and as we wandered through it, stunned and open-mouthed, we found our way into a little alcove of grave markers and/or recognitions of important people of the past. Above them crouched a dog-sized gargoyle, possibly taken from outside and placed in here, with a weathered-off face. When inspiration strikes, I find myself muttering to myself, murmuring the words that make sense, that sound right; I found myself whispering about this faceless gargoyle, the phrase sticking on my tongue. The phrase returned to my brain as we sped our way through the mountains back to Odorhei. It was the phrase I was missing on our three hour trip back from Poenari as we whipped and wound through the darkening clouds and the lumbering mountains.

The Carpathians are monstrous, but not in the ugly and horrifying use of the term. They feel mythic. The clouds settle over them, a grey-purple crown, worthy of these old protectors. Giants, wreathed in mist and clothed in the finest, richest silk. The faceless gargoyles of Transylvania.

How do I portray this with words? Usually, words are the only thing I have. Words create our world, determine how we mold it, how we describe it, how we pass it on. But, much as it pains me to quote Hamlet: words words words, mere words!

But words are my only tools, especially in this medium, so back to Brasov:

Sat in the cradled arms of the Carpathians, Brasov is quite a nice city! It has Indian food, Turkish food (oh, it was wonderful to have Turkish coffee again), shawarma, and we even found a place to swing dance on Friday night. There is always something happening in the main square in town, there is a bookstore that also sells English language books, and a wonderful little weird cafe that we sat in for hours (it was really quite odd. Quirky. Mama, you would have loved it). I think my favorite part, though, was absolutely the Black Church. Half for what it is, and half for how much journal writing it inspired, especially on the idea of faith and devotion.

This weekend trip was very much all wrapped up in the concept of power and devotion, for me. The sheer...sheer-ness of Poenari is a testament to one man's power and his peoples' devotion to him (Vlad had a very dedicated following in his peasants, remember); and the Church struck me as an extremely impressive dedication to faith. The devotion required to conceive of and build these giant, truly magnificent gifts to the power you hold dearest is truly striking. 

The Faceless Gargoyle: Brasov, Dracula, and the Carpathians

Part One: Bran Castle and Poenari Citadel

On Saturday, we headed out of Brasov to begin our double adventure of, first, Bran Castle and then Poenari. 

Bran Castle is a pretty castle on the top of a hill, surrounded by the beautiful green forest and a large stone walkway...and, as my roommate put it, an entire village of kitsch surrounding the base. But the castle itself is large and white and brown and lovely, and so much more than just 'Castle Dracula.' I have to do more research, but it was a fortress and castle and place of residence for many a Romanian noble, including Queen Marie, who was really cool based on all the plaques we read. It's a nice touristy type of place. 

However lovely Bran is as a cute little town, it is indeed a veritable village of tourism and kitschy souvenirs. (Big ol' mugs with a painted Dracula face, fangs extended and forehead scrunched, for example.) We had lunch at a cafe, a couple of us and our field director, and it was a nice relaxing time. 

Which is more than I can say for Poenari. 

During the three hour bus ride through tiny villages and unpaved roads into the Carpathians, dodging cows as we swung perilously around tight curves, we had a lot of time to chat about the upcoming adventure. It turns out that Poenari, being at a most defensible position at the very tip top of a mountain, has something like 1,480 steps. Yes, you read that right. One thousand four hundred and eighty stairs, just to get to the man who takes my money. 

The hike up Poenari was disgusting. I was frustrated and in pain. I was following behind athletes, who may as well have been Transylvanian mountain goats for how they frolicked up the steps to the top. The forest itself is a pretty sight, the concrete stairs rising up through the spread green trees, pointed and thin, like fangs but more beautiful--but other than that, it was quite a miserable time, all told. 

Poenari Castle is worth it all.

The view, the power, the history of it all was breathtaking. And that's even after I huffed and puffed and got my breath back. It is at a nigh-impenetrable height, a stone and brick fortress that overlooks the entire valley, the River Arges slithering far below us, roaring and rumbling. The outline of the crumbling fortress is still formidable, skeletal against the silhouette of the mountains.

I stood at the edge of the cliff, staring down into the long drop below, and felt powerful and tiny simultaneously. AJ and I had a conversation about why. For her, it's the longevity of the surroundings, that we are seeing the same rocks and trees that Vlad saw; for me, it's the remains of the castle and the manmade imprint on history. Nature ebbs and flows to its own rhythm; humans create and force themselves onto this landscape, using it to our advantage. Vlad's genius lay in his use of his own resources and the natural ones at his disposal.

I stood where Vlad III stood, staring down at those dark, unfathomable trees. He scans for enemies while I see cars. He strides with worn boots and powerful steps, and directs his soldiers; hold, wait, but do not be merciful, do not miss. I can feel the military strength, the tactical shrewdness, the strictness that spills over into cruelty. It's a truly incredible feeling.

And that's not even to mention the soaring height of the Carpathian Mountains--which is where I shall pick up in Part Two. 

Deadliest Warrior: Vlad Tepes v. Dracula

Tomorrow evening (Friday), we head off on a group adventure to city of Brasov, in southern Transylvania. From there, on Saturday, we visit both Bran Castle (Transylvania's 'Castle Dracula'; touristy and kitschy and hilarious) and Poenari Fortress, Vlad the Impaler's real castle.

I am so ready for this weekend to be all vampires, all the time. 

One of my favorite things about being in Transylvania with a whole bunch of vampire mythos geeks and history buffs is comparing/contrasting the real history with the myths. Vlad Tepes is a fascinating character, and once you start delving into his reality, it's obvious why he's used in so many different ways. He cuts a compelling figure. 

Similarly, comparing vampire myths cross-culturally, and with the definitive Dracula work, and the deviations in fiction, is a really good time. You're dealing not only with cultural differences on what 'vampirism' is (Greek vampires vs. classic Eastern/Central European vampires vs. stories in Native American cultures like the Iroquois Vampire Skeleton), but also what Stoker decided to set down (his influences are many and varied, pulling from lots of sources and his own imagination) and how popular culture and fiction writers have played with that and weaved their own mythos. It's so much fun. 

Some backstory on Vlad the Impaler from Andre's lecture that first day/The Historian/wikipedia: 

• His father (Dracul, meaning Dragon; named for his policies and his inclusion into a society called The Order of the Dragon) made many enemies, so when he was younger, Vlad was kidnapped and held hostage in Istanbul for many years.
• When he finally returned to Transylvania, he was well-educated, very smart, and very shrewd when it came to military tactics. (Some natural talent combined with observing the Turks, no doubt.)
• As it was, the man was very kind to his peasants and they loved him, would die for him; his lords and nobles, not so much. He was hard on them, didn't favor the aristocracy system, and that made them rather grumpy. 
• Vlad made his fair share of enemies, not least of all, his lords.
• Interesting point: while Vlad was in command, the Ottoman Empire (the Turks) never set foot in Transylvania. The soldiers did (not for very long; they were defeated rather quickly, though it takes a while to die when you're impaled), but there was never a Turkish foothold in the region. (According to Andre; have not fact-checked this, but he is a Romanian scholar who has worked in this region for a very long time)
• One of his most persistent antagonists (previously an ally) was Matthias Corvinus, the famous king of Hungary. 
• Now, this is interesting, coming from Budapest where Corvinus is hailed, to a lecture where he's an impotent coward--such an interesting transition. History, man. One man's hero is another story's black-hatted villain. The truth exists somewhere in between. Or, as John Sheridan says, "Understanding is a three-edged sword: your side, their side, and the truth." 
• The legends of Vlad's death are where much of the vampire myth-research can be seen (though Andre did give us some funny anecdotes that give some evidence) 
• For example, the best one we heard, was: Vlad did not allow weapons in his presence, but a Dominican monk (an order who vehemently opposed Vlad) was allowed to carry a large wooden cross (being a monk). While in a meeting with Vlad, the monk broke the wooden cross to provide a pointed tip and plunged it into Vlad's heart, killing him and starting a whole avalanche of vampire myth questions.
• Andre's closing statement gave us one of my favorite tidbits about Vlad's life and legacy: apparently there are still monks of a religious order set outside his tomb (at Snagov, potentially), praying for his return, to fix Romania.
• Also, I just want to call attention to this very interesting painting from 1463 placing Vlad as Pontius Pilate judging Jesus Christ. Man, you could write a very long, very involved article on that. Wow. 
• And finally, a quote that I think sums it all up very well (found on wikipedia, but very interesting): 

And he hated evil in his country so much that, if anyone committed some harm, theft or robbery or a lye or an injustice, none of those remained alive. Even if he was a great boyar or a priest or a monk or an ordinary man, or even if he had a great fortune, he couldn't pay himself from death.

Whatever you think of Vlad the Impaler, I will say this: he may have been cruel, but he was trying to do right by his people, and he was very effective at it. I will have more information, plus pictures and excited fangirling. 

Archaeologists Are...(part 1)

After spending so much time around my diggers, my anthro and writing instincts are kicking in and I find myself observing the people around me just as much (if not more than) I'm watching the dirt. So let's talk about the kind of people who are drawn to dig up graves in Transylvania.

Archaeologists are wonderfully creative people with wild and very vivid imaginations.

We can be out there early in the morning, already hot, already feeling the sweat in the crooks of our knees, cranky and caffeine-deprived, and you will already be able to hear detailed theories about what we're uncovering. Crackpot theories and jokes, or serious-faced educated guesses, they're all interesting.

I can't tell you much about what we're doing (I've asked the field directors, but not the higher-ups, so I'm erring on the side of caution; the background is all here) but I can give you a little context: we found some connected, in-context bones that first day of proper digging last week, but not much else since then, and nothing connected to the original bones. So, whilst bemoaning the lack of anything new (or anything else to help us make sense of our pit), the following exchange occurred:

Pit Partner: "Ooh, well, maybe there's a pagan cult we've never heard of!"
Me: [deadpan] "There always is."

It drew a laugh and much talk of Indiana Jones, and I think I'm going to add it to my ever-growing collection of Dialogue I Must Use In Something.

In all seriousness, though, we have a bit of background on the site and a general time/place understanding of the setting, but we're digging up some really weird and varied situations. There are a few theories floating around from the directors/people who actually know what they're doing, but the rest of us are just making it up as we go along. And when I say making it up, I mean pulling it out of our butts. It's a little frustrating not actually knowing what's going on, but it's ridiculously entertaining to hear everyone's comments, and I'm content to just laugh and write them down.

Lounging during lunch and writing everything down in my little Field Notes notebook that mama gave me. (Everyone loves it and is totally jealous of me. Good job!)

I'm talking to the shadows, one-o'clock to four*

I look up from my sun-hardened clay to glance around the hillside. Massaging my hand, careful to lightly pass over the forming blisters, I take in the sights. There, in front of me, is the tall grass, light green and desperate for breeze, as I am. A little further on, the town hidden in a dip, red roofs and white buildings and small ferocious cars. The silver spire of the church, a uniform symbol in this area, glints in the merciless sun. Still further, the mountains rise, the light green melting into deep shadows.

I watch the horse-and-cart trot down the road, I hear the students' laughter mix with the rapid low Romanian of the local diggers, and I am once again struck by the luck in my life. I am doing what I once only dreamed as a far-away dream. I am on an archaeological dig in another country, searching for the past and the watercolor-wet sketch of people long dead. I am in Transylvania, hearing Hungarian and seeing Romanian and eating fantastically well. I am rereading the dog-eared and ragged pages of my book just as I am living out the footstep-worn path of the characters and their trek through the region. I am so very lucky and it is wonderful.

All day today, I've been hit again and again by this realization. That I am here, and doing this, and I am going to make it count. It's been wonderfully centering, especially when I find myself getting frustrated over this trivial thing or that stupid comment or my own personal goals in contrast with the group.

For example: while I am an independent/I can do it myself type of person, I do like a certain level of structure when there are group projects and big things to be done. I want to know what I'm doing right or wrong so I can attain the former. And this dig does not have much structure or direction, which is generally okay because I've dug before and I know about square pits and straight walls and leveling and levels and layers--but most people haven't done any of this before. There's no direction, there's no workshop portion of 'here's how to hold a trowel' or 'here's how to fill out paperwork.' Granted, there wasn't much my first summer, either; it was purely an accident of a slow day and my pit partner being absent that led our dig director to teach me the proper way to hold a trowel, to dig, to level out, etc. But it makes having a certain level of uniformity very hard when general knowledge isn't taught. Like, my troweling form is so bad it's embarrassing, because of the hardness of the clay and lack of a properly sharp trowel edge, and if it's like that for someone who has dug for the past four seasons, I can imagine just how confusing and frustrating it is for my pit-mates.

Also, I've come up with another story idea! An archaeological murder mystery! Not particularly original, I know, but the bits and pieces are being sketched out, like:

• murder by trowel--but on a dig like back home, where there are uniform trowels, what acts as the key is the amount of wear/tear and sharpness/dullness of the blade (?)
• someone came up with the idea of the body being found under the plastic tarps we cover our pits up with at the end of the day
• ~controversial~ discovery in a pit
• argument at night, over controversial discovery

Something like that, maybe. I'd have to do more research, but it could be really fun!

*Black Coffee, Ella Fitzgerald. Sad and soppy, but I was in the mood for jazz.