I used the Nokia 800 tough with the KaiOS operating system for a year. It wasn’t a phone for a digital detox, but a smartphone substitute. For me, the definition of minimalism. What made me give it up? Not the fact that the KaiOS system was abandoned by WhatsApp and Facebook, but the lack of a physical QWERTY keyboard and a minimalist WordPad app with an active copy/paste function. Eventually, I would have preferred if the fairly good camera also had a zoom. I waited for a successor with a keyboard, but instead, Nokia abandoned KaiOS and focused on reviving push-button phones and flip phones in dozens of variations. Not a single remake of a QWERTY-keyboard phone. I left comments on the social media accounts of the Nokia and HMD Global campaigns, but I only received replies from other nostalgic folks like me. 2026 is the year the license granted by Nokia to the Chinese phone manufacturer expires. Meanwhile, another Chinese company, Unihertz, has made progress with a sort of Android-powered Blackberry clone. Although I want a phone with a physical keyboard, my goal wasn’t to complicate things with a smartphone, but to have a phone without smart features, yet capable of writing documents and browsing the Internet. Unfortunately, I’ll have to say goodbye to this minimalist concept.
What’s a moment in your life that felt like it was straight out of a movie?
I’m going to tell you a story from my life that seems straight out of a movie—but not just any movie, rather one of those films about fools or a comedy with tragic undertones. On July 20, 2023, I was supposed to report to the philharmonic hall in the capital city of the neighboring county to participate in a competition scheduled for 11 a.m. Since I don’t own a car and the only two trains to that destination passed through my town’s station at 1:30 a.m. (the private one) and around 2 a.m. (the state-run one), I had arranged earlier that day with a taxi driver working that night to take me from home to the station, which is located just outside the city. Although the man had initially seemed delighted with the job, when I called him around 12:50 a.m. to come pick me up, he replied in a panic that the storm that had started around 11 p.m. had knocked down some trees on the road and that only the police and firefighters could still get through. The storm had passed, and I had to make it to catch the only train capable of getting me on time to the city where I was scheduled to take the audition the next morning for the competition I’d been shortlisted for. I panicked and yelled at the taxi driver over the phone that he had to keep his word and not stand in the way of my artistic destiny. Eventually, the driver showed up, I stowed my luggage and guitar in the trunk, and we headed for the station. True, tree branches had fallen across certain sections of the two-lane road, but at least one lane was passable, and even though the driver had driven into oncoming traffic a few times to avoid obstacles on the road, there were no cars coming from the opposite direction at that late hour anyway. Apart from a few old branches and some boulders that had fallen onto the asphalt along the stretch of road running alongside the forest, as well as a tall fir tree whose crown had snapped and fallen across the roof of the high school building, I couldn’t spot any other serious damage from the taxi windows. Consequently, I concluded that the taxi driver had exaggerated the storm’s effects, and I resumed optimistically looking forward to the train ride and the success at the music competition that awaited me that day.
When I arrived at the station around 1:20 a.m., the building and the platform were plunged into darkness—but not the stationmaster’s office, which was lit up. The taxi driver, whom I had paid for the ride and a generous tip, offered to wait for me while I spoke with the stationmaster and to take me back home in case the trains were canceled due to the storm. Unfortunately, I made the thoughtless mistake of sending the driver back into town. The stationmaster had informed me that the trains were indeed stuck somewhere along the route, due to fallen trees blocking the tracks and power lines, but he assured me that they would be cleared within a few hours. Since it was only 2 a.m. and I had to reach my destination by 11 a.m., I believed the man’s lies and took a seat in the waiting room, in the dark. There were a couple of homeless people sprawled out on the benches, sleeping with a beer by their heads and snoring with gasps. With the hall’s excellent acoustics and the pitch-black darkness, I felt like the heroes of the Brothers Grimm stories who had to face the ghost in the haunted bell tower. I couldn’t close my eyes for at least two hours, even though I was tired, yet also excited on the other hand. Around 4 a.m., I noticed the shadows of an unusual light on the walls: across the street from the train station, a roadside restaurant had caught fire. The first to arrive were the owners, who pulled two fire extinguishers from the trunk of a small car and tried to spray them over the flames inside the restaurant, which remained undeterred.
About 10 minutes later, the first local fire truck arrived. The flames had already engulfed the dining hall and were threatening to spread to the residential building in the back. The firefighters sprayed as much water as they had in the truck, then called for a second local fire truck. But that was pretty much the entire firefighting force assigned to the small town where I was. There was a moment when both fire trucks were idle, while the firefighters frantically searched for something around the building. Either they couldn’t find a single working fire hydrant, or they were trying to draw water from the river on whose bank the burning building stood—I couldn’t tell from the train station platform. The fire finished consuming the dining hall of the roadside rest stop, then spread to a two-story hotel-style building with an attic, fortunately unoccupied at the time. Meanwhile, the local fire trucks had headed back into town—probably to refill their empty tanks—while several fire engines brought in by firefighters from neighboring towns appeared on the national highway running parallel to the railroad tracks. I had the impression that the entire eastern part of the county had sent its troops to help my town. Finally, the fire that had broken out under cover of darkness was extinguished as dawn was breaking. Nothing could be saved from the two buildings, except for the walls of the one in the back; the flames had consumed them all the way to the roof. On the side of the road, people were talking loudly and filming with their cell phones. But no one was offering any help, except for the firefighters who had come to the scene.
Although power had been restored almost as soon as the outage began, there was no GSM signal. I couldn’t even call my relatives at home or my favorite taxi driver, let alone go online to check the status of trains stuck on the tracks or the bus schedule as an alternative. Since it was now daylight, the station manager, who had been lying to me every hour that he had received information about the imminent release of the train stuck on the tracks, was replaced by another employee, who was starting his day shift and claimed, just like his predecessor, that “the national train is now being cleared to depart from the station in our county seat.” For it was indeed a national train, so that not all the passengers on it were traveling from the county where the accident occurred to the neighboring county; some of them were coming from the farthest western county and needed to reach the country’s capital.
As time was running out and I was already afraid I wouldn’t reach my destination by train before 11 a.m., around 7 a.m. I made a sign out of an A4 sheet of paper on which I clearly wrote the name of the city I needed to reach, and I went out to the road near the station to flag down cars heading in the right direction. Either all the drivers that morning were only heading to neighboring towns, or their cars were full, or they were afraid of men—even guitarists. The fact is, no one stopped to give me a ride.
When the long-awaited train finally pulled into the station around 9:28 a.m., I gave the locomotive engineer, who was honking triumphantly, the middle finger. I knew the trip to the station I was heading to would take 3 hours—that was under ideal road conditions, which I couldn’t be sure of for the rest of the route, especially after the stormy night that had forced me to spend nearly as much time at the station as a railway employee’s shift, and the passengers on the train were likely to be trapped for an entire night in cars most likely without electricity. I had no guarantee that, by boarding a train at 9:28 a.m. that would take at least 3 hours to reach my destination station, I could even hope to arrive in time for the end of the competition I was supposed to attend at 11 a.m. On the other hand, I was too tired to feel like traveling anymore, nor did I want to give money to a railway company that had robbed me of all my sleep from the previous night. Out of spite, I didn’t even call the taxi driver; instead, since it was already daytime, I boarded the first bus operated by the local city hall.
When I got home, I was astonished to notice on the religious calendar hanging on the wall in the hallway that it was actually the day on which Orthodox Christians celebrate Saint Elijah. This saint is considered the patron of lightning. Tradition says that it must rain on Saint Elijah’s Day, and farmers must not go out to work in the fields because they risk being struck by lightning. I could not find any religious prohibition regarding railway workers for that day, but my faith tells me that there should be both a prohibition and a penalty for violating it.
If you’re wondering what happened to the contest I was supposed to enter, I can tell you that I won first place in the contest held the following year. If a 3-hour trip can take an entire night, why shouldn’t winning a contest take a whole year? After all, we live in Romania, a member state of the European Union, in the 21st century, and time flies awquardly these days.
What’s a simple pleasure in life that brings you joy?
Walking my dog is a simple pleasure in life that brings me joy. Forcing me to leave the house three times a day—not among concrete buildings and on sidewalks, but through parks, along the riverbank, and through the urban forest—keeps me in touch with nature, allows me to experience the changing seasons, and gives me time to take photos and read a little on my phone—things I wouldn’t do if I were staying indoors or behind the wheel.
At the same time, my dog makes me pay attention to the animal world, which I wouldn’t otherwise observe as closely: birds, hedgehogs, ducks, chickens, cats, squirrels, moles, weasels, and even otters. It keeps me alert and curious, helping me live in the moment.
But most importantly, my dog helps me break the rhythm of my daily work and take a break for relaxation, reflection, and staying in shape.
I am very grateful for this constant and silent companionship.
When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?
For the past four years, I have spent my summer vacations in a spa and health resort town in Transylvania. In the center of that town, a kind-hearted woman, a former physics teacher at the local high school, has transformed a house she inherited into a private museum of traditional folk costumes, collecting traditional Romanian garments worn by our grandmothers a hundred years ago, as well as handwoven rugs and the famous blouse roumaine. To entice tourists to cross the street and go up to the second floor of the house-museum, the owner encouraged various local musicians or those visiting from around the country to hold small folk music concerts on her porch. Gradually, the musical evenings gained traction, and the hostess began to think about organizing a festival with multiple artists in the courtyard of the house-museum.
Her only dilemma was where to find more musicians willing to help her, initially either for free or for very little money: only three such artists had passed through the museum’s porch over the years, content with just free lodging and the money they made from busking. But for a festival, she would have needed at least three more performers. She made the mistake of revealing her plan to a reporter from the county radio station, who was on the ground gathering miscellaneous facts to turn into news stories.
Last summer, a staff member at the local radio station who hosted a show called „Strada Folk” came across a news item on the station’s website about a potential first folk music festival in that spa town. It was, of course, a plan that the owner of the house-museum had conceived for the following year. Without contacting this woman or anyone else locally, the host of that program announced last early fall a folk festival with a different name and at a different location in the spa town, organized by him with funding from the county council.
I had just left the spa town about a month ago when I saw a post on Facebook from the host of the folk music radio show who had “borrowed” the museum owner’s idea to carry it out on his own. I called the collector of traditional costumes and asked her: What are you going to do? Are you going to let this unscrupulous man steal an idea you’ve been working on for the past four years? The woman was just as outraged as I was. After an hour-long phone conversation, we agreed to try to put together our own folk festival, one week before the one announced by the radio host.
We had to work out all the details in less than two weeks. And this, given that the museum courtyard—the space where we wanted to hold the festival—was shared with a neighboring building that was in a state of disrepair. On top of that, we didn’t even have the artists confirmed yet: one of our three regular performers had turned down the invitation, so we only had two musicians and needed at least four more in order to have six artists performing across two weekend evenings.
I reached out to all my contacts in the folk music scene who might be open to performing for less money. My call was answered by a musical family I was friends with in my hometown. This wonderful couple of artists brought along two other musicians from two different cities—one who was already well-established nationally and another who was on the rise. On the other hand, the other street musician who spent his summers at the resort museum came with his guitarist brother and another drummer, bringing along a different folk singer from yet another city. With me and my guitar included, we ended up with a lineup that was already in danger of being too packed for just two festival nights.
The last and most challenging problem was renovating the courtyard where the festival was to take place and finding lodging and meals for all the participants. Accommodation was partially sponsored by a former student of the physics teacher who was now the owner of a small private hotel in the resort; part of the accommodation cost and the full price of meals at the restaurant were paid by the association that maintained the museum, but which was facing serious financial difficulties. And the cleaning and refurbishment of the courtyard between the museum and the abandoned neighboring house was completed in record time by a few local volunteers, among whom the museum guard stood out in particular.
Apart from the challenge of organizing a festival just two weeks before it was set to begin, there were two other major risks we took: the musicians invited to perform for the first time at an unknown festival in a remote town might have been disappointed upon arrival and refused to play; the ghost courtyard might have proven impractical for setting up the stage or the audience area. Fortunately, none of these potential nightmares came true: all the invited artists were generous enough to offer their services without monetary payment, but with all other amenities provided. Inspired by the spirit of several other small folk music festivals held on hay bales or wooden stumps, we furnished the courtyard not only with chairs but also with all sorts of handmade wooden objects for visitors to sit on. The stage was built out of wood at the back of the courtyard, against a rocky wall, courtesy of the museum’s same kind-hearted staff. Without spending a single penny on online promotion and with just a few posters plastered around town, we managed to fill the courtyard with both curious locals and enthusiastic tourists. We didn’t charge an entrance fee, but a box for voluntary donations helped offset some of the costs incurred by the museum association.
The audience had a great time; we even had people standing at the gate and some right on the sidewalk across the street. The artists gave their all on stage during the two evenings, and during the days they enjoyed walks, mineral water, and the fresh mountain air. The locals remembered the event and began to take pride in it. And the organizers saw their dream come true and made plans for the following year, when they were to hold a second, better-organized edition with more diverse funding.
Needless to say, a week later, the host of the county radio station’s program did not hold any parallel festival in the same town—and rescheduled it on his own initiative for a later date, which has not been announced since then.
It was a bit of a risky start to autumn, but music and self-belief made it memorable. It’s good to never stop believing in miracles, no matter your age.
During my final year of university, I was renting a room from a landlady who, after several incidents, gave me notice to vacate the room by April 1. I had indeed broken a few of her sacred rules: not to bring any friends over, not even during the day, and not to use a space heater or electric radiator to keep warm (given that she controlled the central heating with utter stinginess). At first, I protested against the decision to evict me and tried to prolong my stay as long as possible. I had grown accustomed to that little basement room where I had been able to live alone because the top bunk of the bunk bed had broken beyond repair. I had thus been living in a sort of cell which, unlike those in prisons, had two wide windows and a door to which I alone held the key. A sort of paradise of privacy at minimal cost and with minimal amenities! It goes without saying why I wouldn’t have left willingly.
Luckily for me, someone who knew me put in a good word for me with the university dorm administration. So, they found me a bed in a room on the third floor of a dormitory located on the edge of the central park, behind the student cafeteria and a 10-minute walk from the university. The room was much more spacious and had a triple-pane window, so it was bright all day long. I even had a bathroom with a shower inside. On the other hand, goodbye privacy with three other mates in the room!
Here, however, my sheer luck came into play: two of my roommates were in their final year at the acting school and worked from morning till night on their graduation performance; the third roommate was a first-year student in the philology department; since we were majoring in the same subject area, we got along well because we had things in common to talk about. Thus, it turned out that taking the leap into the unknown by leaving my old little room was a step forward, and even a beneficial thing.
Toward the end of summer, while heading to the city’s fruit and vegetable market one day, I passed by the street where my former host’s house was located. Out of habit, I glanced into the yard through the gate, which happened to be open. That’s when I noticed that the two windows of the small basement room were flanked by two smaller windows to the left, which in my day had had no glass, only iron bars. That’s when I realized that my landlady had knocked down the partition wall between the small room and the cellar and doubled or tripled the living space as part of a renovation. Thus, the woman had increased her rental income, and I was spared the impression that she had kicked me out out of dislike.
In business, it’s not about feelings, but about interests; her interests simply no longer aligned with mine after April 1 of that year. Therefore, I have no regrets and I don’t look back with nostalgia.
Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?
In the fall following the pandemic, I offered my typesetting services to an elderly woman whose husband, who had passed away prematurely, had left behind the translation of a book of great international significance, in the form of a stack of typewritten pages. After agreeing on the payment and the number of pages to be typeset per day, I was temporarily unable to deliver what I had promised.
The lady in question, who had not paid any advance, unilaterally ended our collaboration, no longer wishing to send me new sections of the manuscript, which, however, had begun to captivate me as I progressed through the typesetting process.
If I could go back in time, I would have prioritized the assignment I had committed to, or at least tried to salvage the friendly relationship after my former client’s unilateral withdrawal. Something I believe I owed, out of collegiality, including to her deceased husband, who was, like me, a translator and writer—but greater than me, judging by the body of work he left behind.
What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?
I don’t want to visit Borsec in Harghita county, Transylvania, Romania because of the dismantling of the narrow-gauge railway in 1992.
Between 1912 and 1914, the former Austro-Hungarian authorities built a forest railway between Toplița (lower) and Capu-Corbului (upper).
This line was extended in 1954 to the Borsec coal mine, and a branch line to the mineral water bottling plant was also constructed at that time. A buffer depot was built at the Toplița railway station for industrial goods transported from Borsec.
The 760 mm gauge railway line was 45.5 km long and was completed in 1951, when the Borsec viaduct was also built.
On May 16, 1989, the transshipment terminal at the Toplița station was inaugurated. The line had five locomotives (three diesel and two steam) until 1992, when rail transport ceased.
One of the rare colour video footage of a steam-locomotive driven train can be watched here.
This is the last Muki tram-locomotive that pulled freight wagons through Timișoara, România. The gauge of the tram tracks in Timișoara is identical to that of the railways. They were designed after the First World War, at the BKVT plant in Budapest, so that factories could receive or send goods using the tram lines. It was displayed in the courtyard of the brewery in the city.
In Sibiu, on 31 May 1947, the collective of the Sibiu Theatre staged the play “Păcat de tine, Tony” by Puiu Maximilian, starring young Radu Stanca as Dorel Slăvescu. It was then that the man who has become the patron of the Sibiu Theatre joined the local theatre group.
Radu Stanca (1920-1962), acclaimed playwright, poet, essayist, director, and actor, graduated from the “King Ferdinand” School of Letters and Philosophy in Cluj, with a BA thesis on The Problem of Reading. Starting 1943, he was an assistant professor at the Philosophy Department headed by Lucian Blaga. He was a member of the Sibiu Literary Circle and editor of the magazine Curțile dorului. He won the Sburătorul Prize for his play “Dona Juana” and collaborated with numerous publications of the time, including Tribuna, Contemporanul, Viața românească.
On 13 February 1949, Sibiu saw the premiere of “Căsuța din câmpie” by Samuil Marshak, the first play directed by Radu Stanca alongside technical director Boby Tiberiu, scenographer Olga Muțiu, and actors Angela Păcuraru, Mircea Axente, Virginia Stoicescu, Sabina Mușatescu, Constantin Th. Stănescu, Mircea Hîndoreanu, Septimiu Sever, Nora Vasilescu, Anișoara Dornescu, Eugenia Dimitriu, Nicolae Albani, Vasile Bojescu. Radu Stanca’s works, whether his texts or his stagings, revolutionized theatre; an example to this end is his “A Lost Letter” directed in Sibiu as the first performance in black and white.
He worked as a director of the Sibiu Theatre until 1961, when he left for Cluj-Napoca, where he became the first director of the National Theatre.
Throughout his activity in Sibiu, Radu Stanca was an iconic director who staged numerous productions appreciated by the audience, developed and brought to life a well-oiled theatre group, thus becoming a trailblazer for the exceptional evolution in time of the Sibiu Theatre that now bears his name.
Transylvanity Fair 