The train from Constanta to Brasov was sweltering, I stunk, and the woman next to me was understandably annoyed when a couple of passengers and I talked for most of the five-hour journey to Brasov.
The train was not bike-friendly, to put it nicely, but the conductor didn’t give me a hard time about leaving the Green Machine in between cars so, in the words of MC Hammer, it’s all good.
Once in Brasov, Liviu (who recently I learned is my great uncle thrice removed), met me on the platform. We jammed my bike into the trunk of Liviu’s trusty Dacia, Romania’s national car, and zip-tied it shut.
Liviu reached out to my grandfather, Victor, about five years ago after conducting a search of all the Tulbure’s in northern California. Perhaps unsurprisingly, my grandpa was the only one who fit the bill, so Liviu emailed him. Since then, Liviu has opened his home to host my grandpa (who flew to Romania for the first time in his life at 81 years old) and my parents too.
After a five-minute car ride from the station, we arrived at Liviu’s apartment. His wife, Coca, greeted me with sarmale (perhaps the greatest all-around dish in the world), pickled cabbage or grape leaves filled with grains and often meats.
Liviu and I proceeded to “Get to work” on at least four shots of 110 proof homemade tuica chased with beer.
A couple drinks in and Liviu and I were off and running, but we still “Had work to do,” according to him, so I soldiered on. Coca’s food was delicious. I was thrilled to see that she’d prepared some mamaliga to go along with the sarmale. All the better to sop up that tuica.
Eventually, we called it a night and Liviu and Coca’s daughter, my cousin, Cristina, picked me up and took me to her nearby apartment where there was an extra room.
I ended up writing this post two days after completing my trip.
The day I finished I was so high on happy emotion that sitting down to scribble in my journal seemed as impossible as setting off back towards Saint Nazaire, France did.
I walked into the Black Sea alone. No friends or family cheering, no one else around with any reason to care that I’d reached my destination. Just me. And it felt really really good. So good in fact, that after I’d cooled off in the water, I hurried up to the bar on a seaside cliff and promptly ordered two large beers to mark the occasion.
As expected, the last day of riding was absolutely vicious—ceaseless climbs and horrendous headwinds. For 10km, there was an actual windfarm with crushing crosswinds. I faced bad traffic for the last 20km and riding and merging onto an actual four-lane freeway about 10km out from Constanta, but holy shit did it feel good to ride to the finish! Aside from my ride through the wind farm, I had a smile on the whole ride.
Today’s only break in the action
It was only fitting that I crossed paths with the Green Riders one last time. They encouraged me to finish the ride with them but I put some distance between us over the next set of climbs instead. I wanted to finish this trip alone.
As I rode into Constanta and saw the Black Sea break onto the horizon I couldn’t help but laugh out loud like a spastic.
All the effort, uncertainty, fun, and everything else that I’ve experienced on the trip all brought me to this place: The Black Sea, Constanta, places on a map that I’ve been mouthing a few times a day for the past few months whenever someone would ask me my destination.
The Atlantic Ocean
The Black Sea!
There was no anticlimax for me. Reaching the Black Sea felt even better than I expected it to.
Selfies were had by all
After spending about 15 minutes trying to find my way down to the water with The Green Machine, I finally said, “Screw it,” and just left my bike up on the road then hurried down to wade into the water. What a feeling. To have done it. To have ridden my bike across Europe. I felt (and still feel) a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.
I was beaming. But no rest for the excited. I had a train to catch from Constanta to Brasov in Transylvania. So I hopped back onto The Green Machine in search of the train station. I bought a ticket for the next train out and met yet another French couple who’d just completed their ride from Budapest.
We commiserated over the traffic. They could tell I was overjoyed. Then I was off for some, you guessed it, pastries before the train.
Today I was back onto the busy 21 Freeway. I couldn’t take the alternate route suggested by the map because the dirt roads are unpassable after yesterday’s storm. I’ve got to be careful. No more crashes.
Today was one hilluva ride. Huge hills on the Bulgarian freeway. This sucked because slowly creeping up a hill as cars fly past you feels way worse than cooking along at 20km under the same conditions. But once I crossed back into Romania for the final time the roads get a lot less scary. I can’t say the same for the hills. But to be honest, at this point in the ride the challenging hills feel good.
The final border crossing was at Silistra, Romania. The maps mentioned poor road quality from there onwards but all the cobblestone roads have been paved since my maps’ publishing, apparently.
I do not recommend stopping in Baneasa. There is nothing there. I found a weird but nevertheless well-appointed hotel where I stopped for the night.
Pretty soon after paying for my room found that the water heater was broken. I went out to look for someone to fix it but the building was empty save for me. The front door was locked from the outside too so I was trapped. By some dumb stroke of luck, two young women studying local mosquitoes—I kid you not—walked up to the front door as I knocked on it from the inside. They opened it just as a hotel employee came speeding into the parking lot to check on the water heater.
As I passed the 100km to Constanta marker, I let out a guttural joyous yell. Then a BMW quite literally almost killed me with an errant swerve out of his lane into mine. A big fuck you to each and every asshole driver, most of whom drive BMWs and Mercedes. That’s a fact. An anecdotal fact. Square that circle.
Tonight it’s Resevoir Dogs, a block of cheese and stale bread for dinner from the only store within 5 km.
I wanted to make it to Silistra today but a big thunderstorm, um, dampened…my plans.
Light flooding on the 21 in Bulgaria, if that isn’t too much of oxymoron
Bulgaria’s 21 Freeway, which is what you take out of Bulgaria for the entire way over the next couple stages, is not suited for cyclists. In good conscience, I cannot suggest riding your bike on this portion of the trip. Today brought rain, wind, and semi-trucks the entire way. I stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant during a particularly punishing downpour.
This gave me time to think about the wipeout I’d just experience. As I rode along the edge of the freeway, my front wheel caught the seem between the tarmac and the gravel and took me down. I was lucky that no cars or semi-trucks were nearby or I would have been roadkill.
At this point in the trip, I’m looking forward to the end. Not because I’m sick of riding or exploring, but because the constant shots of adrenaline on these heavily trafficked roads with discourteous drivers are exhausting.
Eventually, I exited the 21 and made a short climb to a room in Tutrakan. The town sits atop a steep hill overlooking the Danube. The modern planners of the city managed to ensure that almost none of the river is visible from the perch with one exception: the Kotbata Restaurant.
Tonight’s quarters
Old Soviet housing projects abound in Tutrakan.
Seeing the poverty and general quality of life in some of these Eastern European towns has made me thankful that my great grandparents left for the US when they did. I don’t mean that in any way as an insult. I just know that most of the opportunities that I’ve lucked into would not have been possible without their emigration. In fact, I wouldn’t even have been born. But I digress.
I found the river views I’d been looking for at Kotbata. There I ordered some stuffed mushrooms and a Bulgarian soup. The soup had yogurt, dill, cucumber, some oil, and was served cold. Delicious. Well under a dollar. Tangy, fresh, crunchy, and dilly. What’s not to like?
Every EV6 cyclist willing to risk their life on the 21 should eat at this restaurant for the views alone.
Today’s route was much better than it had been the past few days. I rode for the first 30 kilometers with a French couple I met last night.
Francis, Nicole, and a burning heap of trash
After nearly calling it quits in Giurgiu, I rallied and decided to cross back into Bulgaria to explore Ruse for the rest of the day.
This was the right call. The bridge that crosses into Ruse did not have a shoulder and the pedestrian walkway was off-limits so it was a bit hairy. One lane was under construction on half of the bridge with predictable head-on traffic as a result.
Ruse is flush with Belle Époque architecture and pedestrian plazas that make it a lovely place to just sit around and people watch. I ordered a big Bulgarian savory pancake filled with beans, cheese, corn, and hot sauce, then sat and shared a meal with the mosquitos.
Big Bulgarian pancake
There was one hiccup on today’s ride, one of my rear panniers ripped going over train tracks. The screw holding the clip system in place on the bag stripped out. I jury-rigged it with a bungee cord to secure it in place. That’ll have to do until I get home.
Today was all headwinds and 34C heat. For whatever reason, I have always associated wind with cold weather. Today disabused me of this belief. I intended to make it all the way to Zimincea but instead stopped for a rest in a park at around 1 pm in Turnu Magurele and never got going again.
So I booked a room at a spot called Rustic House. STAY HERE! This was one of the best stays so far. Rustic House is the home of a wonderful Romanian couple with an extra building where guests stay. It had AC and came with a delicious home-cooked meal for just a few euros more. I met a French couple there named Francis and Nicole.
Tonight’s wonderful hosts
The owner of Rustic House was an able mechanic and offered to take a look at anything wrong with my bike. He helped clean my chain and removed the sticks and stones that inevitably found their way into my cogs. A godsend.
They even helped me run a load of much-needed laundry
After a wonderful vegetarian dinner (pea and potato stew preceded by a flavorful soup) and lot’s of my own storebought cookies, I passed the hell out.
Dessert crepes just like my great-grandma used to make
I crossed into Romania today for a flatter ride. Calafat is opposite Vdin in Romania. To get there I crossed the New Europe Bridge, which has a bike-friendly path along its left side to get to Calafat. After a shitty but included breakfast at the Bononia Hotel and a stop for some groceries, I was off.
The currency exchange man on the New European Bridge took my 105eur in Bulgarian currency and returned the equivalent of 93eur in Romanian Lei. The attendant ensured me — with a big smile — that all is well because, you see, it is the bank’s fault and not his. The currency first had to be converted from Bulgarian currency into Serbian money, then back to Romanian Lei and in the process, there was some….leakage. After this 21st Century highway robbery, the Green Machine and I pushed on to passport control where the computer system was down.
After about 20 minutes things were up and running and I was off and riding onto the high way onramp! Climbing onto a highway is something I do not recommend, but I’m not sure if it could have been avoided. Along the left side of border control there might have been a route that skipped this adventure, but I can’t be certain.
This was a dumb one to take, but I survived
I wasted half an hour in Calafat trying to exchange my last $12 worth of Serbian dinar, which I’d found in my handlebar after crossing the border. This was an object lesson in the time value of money, in a sense.
The rest of today’s ride was pretty brutal. It was mostly flat but with a discernable headwind, weather in the 30s, diesel traffic, and did I mention headwinds? I also noticed that my front cassette is warped and wobbling, which is pulling on my chain a bit. I’ll have to ignore that until I’m back home.
Otherwise, Romania has been a great place to ride. Town after town is identical with the same store that sells the same processed foods, with what looks like the same church and the same aging park without any kids playing. Of course there are differences and I’m sure what I’ve written would be offensive to any resident of these towns, but to the cyclist passing through at 15 to 20km per hour, these towns are all the same.
Views from the New Europe Bridge
The hotel I found in Bechet charged 20eur for a room, but given the alternatives and the AC, I’d have paid a lot more. Plus, the dinner was a delicious mamaliga with sour cream and cheese, pickles, and beer. I recommend staying at this hotel for the food alone. Truly one of my favorite meals so far.
I’ve taken to singing aloud to myself on the parts of my rides where it would be dangerous to wear headphones. My current song, set to the melody of “If You’re Going to San Francisco”, goes like this, “If you’re going on the EuroVelo, be sure to wear sunscreen while you’re there” and so on with different suggestions and that “you’ll be sure to meet lovely people there.”
The hotter it gets, the more excited I am to done cycling. I am especially looking forward to meeting my relative Liviu and his family in Brasov, Romania. They’ve graciously agreed to host me at there place for a week or so once I reach the Black Sea.
I got up early and skipped the meat-heavy pension breakfast to make the 7:30 am ferry across the river, which took about six minutes. It was surreally beautiful, replete with a castle, reflective water, and wild dogs that take the ferry back and forth all day.
Just after the ferry ride, I stopped in Veliko Gradiste to find dog spray and breakfast. I couldn’t find dog spray, which ended up being fine. Just getting off the bike and waiting for dogs to lose interest was probably a better strategy than ratcheting up a confrontation anyways.
I did, however, find breakfast. I finally made time to try Serbia’s legendary, oil-drenched, crispy, and, dare I say, divine: Burek. After burning the living hell out of the roof of my mouth, I took in the fast pace at the cafe’s intersection then I was on my way.
This leg of the journey is second only to Passau to Linz for its beauty. It’s the start of the somewhat-famed 21-tunnels along the Danube Gorge in Serbia. I’d read that the tunnels are pitch black and shoulderless and to an extent they are. But most of them are short enough that you can see the exit as you enter. I do recommend a good headlight and taillight for the four-or-so longest tunnels.
Just before the first tunnel I lucked out and crossed paths with a bunch of German cycle tourists. Without a word, I joined their group until the Lepenski Vir archeological site. Safety in numbers. Cars respected our group of 15 or so cyclists.
Off to the left of the main route is the Lepenski Vir museum. I recommend visiting. Be sure to bring cash with you and don’t be afraid to take your bike down the path to the museum. I didn’t know either of these things so I ended up taking a round trip 25-minute walk only to find that I couldn’t enter.
Even if you don’t want to spend the money to enter the museum it’s still worth riding your bike up to the entrance. There is a large excavation site with a few of the sculptures on display there for free.
The Lepenski Vir museum
From there, it was a short ride into Donji Milanovac, a quaint little town with what might be the world’s smallest beachfront. The place to stay there is a hostel just after the EuroVelo signage pointing into town. At 7eur, the hostel is a steal. Lots of cyclists stop there.
Some wonderful cycling signage
At the hostel, I met a fabulous couple from Mexico, Miguel and…I forget his girl friend’s name…They generously gave me a bowl of lentils for dinner. I ordered a round for the three of us then we were off and talking. We touched on cycling tours, Balkans history and politics, and managed a healthy heaping of Trump-bashing.
Tomorrow I’ll ride past the Iron Gate Dam and decide whether to cross into Bulgaria or not.
4 words to describe this ride: Tough Roads, Serene Estuaries
Belgrade has been witness to many changes—empires, countries, cultures, religions—but one constant is traffic. The way out of Serbia’s capital was treacherous.
“[Cyclists,] Please use pedestrian sidewalk to pass the bridge!”
Eventually, cars gave way to unpaved dike roads. These roads were home to territorial dogs that loved nothing more than to chase cyclists. The trick is to stop riding and put your bike between you and the hound then firmly say something like “No!” I was chased three times today.
“Attention: at certain times of the year the cycling path is full of nasty thorns that will even the strongest tire!” I have no doubt that a cyclist lobbied for this sign
Today’s road quality was the worst of the entire trip. Roadside memorials for mowed down motorists abound in Eastern Europe and in particular, Serbia. After a couple hundred of these solemn gravesites, riding through quicksand was still better than cycling with cars.
After what felt like an endless ride punctuated with stops to pull branches out of my spokes, I arrived at the ferry crossing in Stara Palanka. Just after the ferry stop on the left was a pension with a restaurant. That’s where I stayed. It was no two-star hotel but it was a clean room with food.
Dinner was frozen fish nuggets. Frozen, as in they arrived at the table still cold and solid. My host took the fish back and let them swim in the hot oil a while longer.
My room had posters up of all of Serbia’s basketball stars. In other words, all of my favorite Sacramento Kings players were looking right at me. Since there is a dearth of hoops-talk in Dublin I ignored the fact that my hosts didn’t speak English and started talking Serbian basketball with them. The language barrier was no problem at all. Peja plus three fingers, Vlade plus a mimed behind the back pass, Djokovic plus “best Serbian,” and so on.
Tomorrow I’ll ride through the Danube Gorge.
Today’s Miscellany
Something must’ve made me happy here. Perhaps I’d just finished with the hay road, or maybe I was reminded how lucky I am
I started the day off right with Serbian pastries (one cheese — good cheese: salty, tangy, and not so much firm as it was taut — and one cherry) and some coffee in the Bohemian District after a restless night in the hostel. The guy in the bunk beneath me sounded more pug than human.
Breakfast in Belgrade
Bloom Cafe is a short walk from the Bohemian District. I headed there for coffee number two. Situated on a corner with wide-open floor to ceiling windows, Bloom is a fantastic place to sit and watch the city go by. Some of its signage (“Bloom where you are planted”) is defeatism disguised as motivation. Where’s the courage in that? Some places suck and you’d be better off blooming elsewhere. But don’t let my cynicism discourage you. Bloom’s coffee is really good and the staff is friendly.
Belgrade Fortress
After Bloom, I made my way to Republic Square where the free walking tour met. The tour was good with a caveat. It took me through the fortress, past the French Embassy, back down the bohemian street, and pointed out the city’s lone mosque, which I had missed earlier. But the guide only talked about Serbia as a victim. There was no mention of Milosevic or the country’s role in genocide. Others on the tour thought maybe the history was too recent to bring up. I don’t believe that being dishonest about history now or waiting to talk about history until it is more convenient ever makes it easier to speak the truth later on. America’s inability to confront its own role in the genocide of the native people comes to mind as an example of such cowardice.
The walking tour ended near Mayka Veg Restaurant, which I recommend. I ordered a Serbian red wine and the Belgrade Steak.
The steak was impeccably seared and seasoned. Its marinade includes just a touch of sugar that carmelized to create a magically savory-sweet seitan slab.
This taste of sugar kicked off a craving for a bonafide sweet so I ventured over to Poslasticarnica Suma. If you go to Belgrade without stopping here for a treat or six then you’re are the worse for it. The vegan Forest Cake, a chocolate cake with marzipan and a forest fruit jam, is fantastico. I ordered an almond praline too.
The co-owner of the shop is a friendly woman in her 20s whose name I didn’t catch. We had a nice conversation about her business, the heatwave, and Belgrade’s…lacking…bike infrastructure.
The next time I hear, “NYC isn’t Amsterdam” in response to calls for improved bicycle infrastructure I’ll respond, “And it isn’t Belgrade either!”
Back to the sweets. The almond praline had orange zest that took it to the next level.
Ever a glutton for stomach aches, I decided that upon finishing my cake and praline the only sensible thing to do was to order the obscenely decadent vegan chocolate carob cherry cake—Ooey and gooey and tart and rich and delicious.
After staying a while at Poslasticarnica Suma to recover, I snapped out of my prediabetic coma and caught a second wind that carried me to the Serbian National Museum. It’s worth a visit if you’re interested in the region’s ancient history or if you want to see Serbia’s largest public art collection.
The museum’s four or so floors somehow gave me the illusion of hunger despite the 10,000 or so calories I’d ingested just a couple hours earlier. So I mosied over to Tel Aviv Hummus for what I expected to be a quick dinner.
At dinner, I met a former Russian figure skater with a big chip on his shoulder and a college student named Tali, from Brooklyn who studied in LA. The Russian Jimmy MacElroy mercifully left after explaining that he had a really cool place to be.
Tel Aviv Hummus
Then Tali invited me to the pub crawl at her hostel. Not one to turn down an opportunity to relive the hostel pub crawls of my college days, I said, “Let’s do this.”
Spotted this leaning tower of third-degree burns across the bar
A wretched shot of rakija and the pub crawl was off and running. I recognized a few of the guys on the crawl from this afternoon’s walking tour, We shared a couple drinks and me some other characters along the way. One was an American guy named Josh whose “parents went through shit in China” and who “speak[s] Mandarin and doesn’t take shit” and who, apparently, really likes cocaine.
The pub-crawl’s penultimate stop was near my hostel so I peeled off and finished the night with what else but a pastry.
Today’s Miscellany
Make sure to take out some cash in Belgrade. You’ll need it tomorrow and there aren’t any ATMs on the route.
