Journey to the Church in Targu Mures

by Danny A. Bass

It was a beautiful spring day, sunny but cool, when I walked through the doors of the 400-year-old Fortress Church in the ancient city of Targu Mures, once an outpost on the eastern frontier of the Roman Empire and in what is now Romania. But my journey to that church began some three years earlier.

On the train from Budapest, I sat alone on one side of a two-seat cubicle, the other side unoccupied. Directly across the aisle sat a young woman, perhaps twenty, also alone. We had not spoken, only a nod and friendly smile of acknowledgement passing between us. But at one of many stops en route to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, a large group of bicyclists began boarding our car. As with any such group traveling together, they were loud and jovial as they began to fill nearby seats. The young woman asked if she might move into the seat across from me, which I welcomed her to do; and fortunately, no bicyclists chose to join us.

When meeting a stranger, one never knows if conversation will come easily, or at all. Despite our age difference, we began a conversation that moved smoothly from introductions to interests to goals to philosophy that filled hours of what would otherwise have been only the boring clickety-clack of train wheels.

Melinda was an attractive young woman with short brunette hair, large dark eyes, an athletic build, and one of the brightest smiles I have ever seen. She was from a small town in eastern Romania and spoke English quite well. Can two people of different generations truly become friends after only a few hours of conversation? I believe we did. Like me, she was visiting Zagreb for the first time and one of us, I don’t remember which, suggested that we see the city together and we agreed to do so.

The train arrived in Zagreb after dark on a rainy night, and after passengers disembarked and left, the train station was all but abandoned. I could see my hotel from the station. But Melinda, traveling on a much tighter budget, had arranged to stay at an Air-B&B and the host was to meet her at the station. She insisted that she would be fine waiting alone, but I said I would stay with her until her host arrived. The host arrived on a motorcycle. He was a young man about her age.

After thirty-four years as a law enforcement officer, I admit to certain paranoia regarding the nature of man. This was a young woman going to the home of a man she knew nothing about in a city where she knew no one. The three of us made introductions. I made a point of repeating his name twice, and twice noting that I would meet her back here at the station the next day at an agreed upon time. I thought I saw a slight smile on her face as she seemed to realize that I might be subtly warning him, which I was. Perhaps I should note that I have a daughter.

I had only intended to see Zagreb, but she was traveling to other sites in Croatia and invited me to travel with her, so after a few days we moved on. Again, I had a hotel but she an Air-B&B. The host was a young man who was renting rooms in his parents’ apartment while they were away so there would be several people in the apartment. I rode with her in a taxi. She exited the taxi and buzzed at the door; the door opened, and she entered. We were to meet at the train station the next day. The apartment building was in a somewhat remote area and was not high income. I asked the taxi driver to write down the address for me, paranoia.

We did meet at the agreed upon time at the train station, she with two young Spanish backpackers, a boy, and a girl, in tow. But we missed the train. We were all going to Plitvice Lakes National Park, a beautiful place with sixteen lakes joined by cascading waterfalls as a river flows down the mountain. The Spanish and Melinda were discussing hitchhiking, but I did not consider that an option for me. So, I rented a car and the four of us set off on an old-fashioned road trip. In conversation I learned that the host at the B&B was letting rooms while his parents were away, without their knowledge; and that there had been drugs in the apartment. I told Melinda that I had been concerned and had gotten the address in the event she didn’t show up at the station the next day. The slight smile again.

We arrived at the nearest lodging to the park. The Spanish couldn’t afford a room and said they would sleep in the nearby woods and ride with us to the park the next day. The lodge had two vacant rooms. I rented both, and after repeated refusals the Spanish agreed to take one and Melinda and I shared the other. The next day we drove to the park where Melinda and I parted ways with the Spanish.

After touring the park, we returned to our lodge for our last night together as it was time for Melinda to return to Romania. The next morning, I drove her to a nearby bus stop. It was on a remote road with no buildings in sight, and there were two middle-aged men there waiting for the bus. Melinda hugged me and said goodbye. I glanced over at the men and told her I was in no hurry and would wait with her for the bus. Again, that slight smile that I had decided was amusement at what she must see as my old-fashioned chivalry, or paranoia.

I continued what I often refer to as my walkabout, although it involves trains, planes, and automobiles as well as walking, to several other countries before returning home. Sometime after I returned home, I received an email from Melinda. She thanked me for being a friend and for traveling with her as my company made her trip much more enjoyable. Then she wrote, “But most of all, thank you for letting me know what it’s like to have a father, for a girl who never had one.” I must admit that I was quite moved by those words; and I then understood that those slight smiles at my protective behavior were something more than amusement.

The next year I visited her in Romania and she and her boyfriend, who I liked very much and who is a freelance archeologist, took me on a wonderful tour of mountains and ancient Seklar castle ruins. I learned that they are descendants of the Seklar people, nomads who roamed what is now eastern Romania and western Hungary. Though she was born and lives in Romania, Melinda speaks Hungarian better than Romanian. It was a wonderful visit with my friend.

And the next year I visited them in Ingolstadt, Bavaria, Germany where he was involved in the excavation of an ancient Roman site, and she was working as an assistant. It was a nice visit, the highlight being Melinda’s surprise, tickets to a performance of Carmen in the Munich opera house. Simply beautiful.

The following year I received an email from Melinda inviting me to her wedding. I replied that while I would very much like to be there, I was unsure, as I had just weeks earlier returned from two months traveling in Southeast Asia. She responded that she would really like for me to be at her wedding, so I was off to Romania again. A twist in the story is that she was not marrying the boyfriend who I knew. Their years-long relationship had ended, and she had met someone else and fallen in love.

The wedding was to be held in Targu Mures and I arrived there the night before the nuptials. Since I had never met her fiancé, Melinda brought him to my hotel that night to introduce us. After introductions and small talk, she said, “Danny, will you walk me down the aisle tomorrow?” I was honored, and very moved at that request.

So, on that beautiful sunny but cool spring day when I walked through the doors of the 400-year-old Fortress Church, it was with a beautiful smiling bride in a flowing white bridal gown on my arm. And thus ended my long journey to the church at Targu Mures.