Calderucani Monastery

I am typing this while riding on a small bus just outside the Calderucani Monastery. I got up early to catch the 7:30 AM bus from the Press Building bus stop. When I got there a bus driver pointed to me a #451 bus instead of a #452 bus as the Lonely Planet instructed. Fortunately I had a friendly bus driver who spoke a little English. He took me about 8 miles outside of town. It doesn't take long to get into the countryside outside Bucharest.

When we got to his final stop, he said to wait here of for 20 minutes and my bus would come. I thought he said bus #460, and I am grateful he was there with me when I hailed the bus. This new bus driver would not give me the time of day. Fortunately a few of the riders told me when my stop came. A long, straight, one kilometer road led to the monastary. The road was deserted except for a little yapping dog. As I walked further the loud high buzz of caicadas drowned out the once silent road.

The first sign that I saw was an icon of "NO PHOTOGRAPHS". Two bearded monks stood in front of the white walled gate and spoke to a man in a blue Dacia. I decided that I would walk around the vast white outside first. To the left I passed a small Orthodox cemetery. Surrupticously I snapped a photo. I came to the other side of the building and a view of the lake came in sight, but obstructed by trees. Another younger bearded monk came out from a white building near the lake. I said, "Do you speak English." Simply, "no" was all he said. I follows him to the front of the Monastary. The other two monks were still there and I asked if I could enter through the gates. They gestered me to go in more friendly than the other younger monk.

Two story white stucco walls with a series of porch arches on both floors surrounded the monastary. On the right hand side there appeared to be common rooms, refectory and other common living spaces. The satelitte dishes on the outside in the same corner seemed to reinforce my conjecture. On the right hand side on both floors were the rooms of the monks. One even had his laundry hung out to dry. At the center was a large church, or basilica (which is what Romanians call Orthodox Churches of any size.

Some think that I have noticed here is that the Orthodox churches are small and compact, not like the vast cathedrals of Europe. I walked inside this basilica, just behind that first young monk that I had "met". I stood in the back trying to be out of the way. I heard a snort and I think that I must have woken the grey bearded monk sitting behind me. I hadn't noticed him. A priest was saying Mass and I could hear the antiphonal singing of the a few monks responding to the priest's chanting- beautiful sound. The decorations were characteristicly Orthodox, dark varnished woods, multiple gold and painted icons all around the space. A series of regular, repeated icons in the front.

The first thing that struck me about the basilica were the classic Orthodox large mural of saints on the walls, drawn in muted browns and reds. The priest was in a gated chamber in the front. At one point to show the monstrance, he opened the gate and raised it. He wore a light blue vestment with a decorated white cross on both sides. I notice that several of the monks were with me in the rear part of the basilica. The structure of the interior had three chambers, the back where I stayed, the center where the monks chanted and the front where the priest, behind the gate, said mass. There were two large support columns in this back part of the church, a wide entrance to the next part. The two gigantic pillers on each side divided this anteroom into thirds. A set of small pews, maybe four on each side, attached themselves to the back wall. Each of the three rooms had its own set of decorative work. In the first anteroom was a large mural on the small dome. The singing monks in the second chamber were out of sight on the sides with pews perpendicular to the pews in the back. As I mentioned before the priest was in front just to the left.
Just after I walked out I admired the tan basilca building. I also suripticiously snapped a photo, probably not a very good photo. Despite the prohibitions on photography I took about four. Ironically I lost my camera case on the grounds of the monestary. I walked out of the monastary down the straight one kilometer road, past the buzzing cicaedas and the baking little dog. Soon the bus had come.

Despite the beauty of this quiet place, I felt like an invader. I had not come for prayer or a person seeking advice. I had come as a tourist. Had I made prior arrangement to meet with monks, perhaps stay a night or have a meal with them, it might have felt as if I belonged there more than I did. There were no sweeping beautiful views over the lake, no other tourists and real notice taken of a American tourist like me.