Tomorrow, we’ll bid farewell to Campulung, that small and grey town that seems to cloak its daily toil in a hushed breath, hidden from view. Twenty-four thousand residents orbit their routines, twenty second-hand clothing shops, five funeral parlours, and one long road that curves at its end into total darkness, as though disconnected from everywhere else.
The stay was pure delight, and if we could have stayed longer, we probably would have. These were the most pleasant cold days we’ve ever experienced. Here are a few moments I’d love to share:
We were even blessed with two days of snow, one falling on my Hebrew birthday. For a born and raised Galilee like me, snow truly is a celebration.
My final day here will be devoted entirely to writing. That’s how I am—predictable in the little things, in the day-to-day. But in my stories? Never.
I hope to finish today the story I began here. Remember it? The one that at first seemed short, almost a passing whim, but quickly sprang to life, grew wild, tore through its seams, and became an independent entity that can no longer be confined to a few words.
Somehow, the spirit of this place has quietly slipped into my writing. Romania, and Campulung in particular, breathes between the scenes. Not overtly, but it’s there, like a shadow stretching with the sunset. That’s why I know that if I don’t bring this story to its end here, in the place where it was born, it will remain unfinished. It will dissolve in Lisbon, swept away by the everyday moments, and disperse into that ghostly void where unfinished stories accumulate, churning, threatening to swallow everything I’ve written and everything I will write.
I can’t recall the last time I felt so inspired. I think I didn’t realise how much I needed this journey until it came to be. Some things can only be found in a specific place, at a specific time.
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