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Sibiu |
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Children have a different reality. A flower, or an ant carrying its load, are more important than money. Stock has no meaning. And dragons, ogres, princes, fairies and Santa do exist. I spent my childhood in Sibiu, a medieval city where imagination can spread its wings without any effort. I saw and touched buildings from the 13th century. I dueled with wooden sticks on old defense walls and towers. I played hide and seek in old tunnels inside crumbled bastions or catch in the moat in front of the walls. I saw weapons and huge swords in the local museum and I always wondered how strong the warriors must once have been, to be able to handle them. I had always fright in my heart when I visited the old executions court perched on top of a wall. In the old days, pikes were stuck in the ground at the bottom of the wall and criminals were thrown down and let there suffering until they died. On the wooden benches of the Evangelic church I felt my body and soul resonate with the organ music and I saw the sun beans, filtered through tall stained-glass windows, caressing the stone-carved arches and pillars. Several centuries ago the winters must have been very hard, with a lot of snow. Some of the houses have very steep roofs, like two or three stories high, to prevent a buildup of snow. The windows in the roof have the shape of eyes, and you have the feeling that the city is watching over you anywhere you are. These eyes still follow me. I left Sibiu and my house became the sanctuary under the care of the high priests, my parents; a safe-heaven where I could always return after a battle to recover. Now the high priests left, and I sold the house this week. I still have the sanctuary in my heart, but the safe-heaven disappeared. I very much like the Brazilian author Paulo Coelho, he is always so positive and optimistic. His latest book I read is "The fifth mountain", the story of the prophet Elias. Elias had to flee his country, Assirians destroyed his new adoptive city and the woman he loved was killed. A God-sent angel advised him to first reconstruct his past: keep the good memories and forget the frustrations, regrets and what if I would have done differently. The same attitude had the conquistadors, adventurers that burned their ships once arriving in the New World. They wanted to mark that they have no past and only a future; unknown, dangerous, filled with jungle smells, but this is the only option. Some of my ships lay sunken in the bay and I can dream of the adventure lying ahead. I'm driving away from Sibiu, past shining yellow wheat fields, while the scorching summer heat sets ablaze the haze on top of the mountains on the horizon. And I have only one destination: my future.
Dorel Jurcovan 22 June 2003 |
Traffic
tunnel from the 15th century
Liars’ bridge
Main street
prepared to receive tourists
“Roemischer
Keiser”, a classy restaurant
The house of
my childhood