MY HIGH HEELS ARE ECHOING on the narrow, cobblestone streets of the medieval city of Sibiu or Hermannstadt, first mentioned in 1191 – in a document of the Vatican, under the name “Cibinium,” due to the river Cibin that flows through the city, while memories of my childhood are invading me like white pigeons returning home to their nest. My brisk morning walk ends at Cafe Wien, which not only bears the name but truly is a piece of Vienna through the ambient, yummy food, and the Austrian music broadcasted on-line inside the Café. Here I am in Transylvania, Romania, sitting in a Viennese café, ordering my morning deadly sinful apple strudel, a German dessert, with an Italian cappuccino when the cage-look-alike rattling of my mind comes to a stop. Voices speaking English and French can be heard loud and clear. Two Asians are ordering a chocolate croissant that only the though of it makes my mouth watering. Where am I? Is this Sibiu, in Romania, the Romania I grew up in? How come there are so many foreign languages spoken in this tiny place? Sibiu, the cradle of my life, still has the chestnuts of my adolescence but they are now stronger and branchier; the mild breeze still carries the fragrance of the roses from my Grandma’s garden all the way to the railways where the long siren of the trains is still reverberating in my head like it was yesterday.  I still feel my mother’s soft hand holding mine, like it was a moment ago, the way she used to when she was taking me to the German kindergarten, or, for eight continuous years, to ballet to learn poise, po [...]

Would you Like to read more? Register or login from here.