Kronstadt: Tears of time

•

Kronstadt:

tears of time

photographs & text by swchps

Transylvania, late summer of 2019.

Zoe and I had just arrived from the US East Coast, for Zoe to retreat into her work on the first draft of our book, Facing East, in an easeful Eastern European town, amongst mountains. We had our plan, and it was supposed to roll out just fine. Yet, without knowing the cause, I was beginning to experience the early symptoms of a gradually debilitating condition.

I had recently visited in upstate New York, where I had been photographing out in nature. During my visit, I seem to have been bitten by an insect, and developed a mild reaction: a small rash on the back of my leg, which expanded for a few days, and then disappeared, just as quickly and mysteriously as it had first appeared.

Now, while Zoe worked on her writing, and despite my developing ailments — a frail knee, relentless back pain and a growing restlessness — whenever possible, I went out to photograph on the streets of the walled town of Kronstadt, the historic centre of modern day Braşov, Romania. As I strolled around the old town, I was captivated by its ancient scarred face, that hinted at a slowly evolving, convoluted and, often perhaps, challenging history.

Night after night, day after day, I was feeling more and more debilitated. In the silence, a microscopic monster, Borrelia burgdorferi, was casting a whole world for herself inside me.

At the dawn of the 13th century — around the time of the Fourth Crusade and the ensuing fall of the Byzantine Empire — the Hungarian Kingdom was welcoming Saxon settlers to its Transylvanian territories, to develop agriculture and mining. For their protection, around the year 1211, by order of King Andrew II, the Teutonic Knights built three fortified settlements along the Carpathian route to Constantinople. The main one was named Corona, or Kronstadt in Germanic, meaning "the Crown's City."

Benefiting from its location alongside the trade route between Western Europe and the Near East, the city's wealth and architecture flourished. Amidst the splendid Transylvanian forest, Kronstadt's streets, homes, schools, public buildings, churches and fortifications, rose and mounted, expanded and gradually aged, for hundreds of years.

I first visited here a few years back, in the year 2014, inspired by chance. In the spring of that year, I had taken an all-night train from Budapest, Hungary, to Bucharest, Romania — a route that crosses through the Carpathian range. After an uncomfortably long, almost sleepless evening on a seating-only, second-class, run-down train car, the morning's first lights revealed an unexpected, mesmerising sight: the horizontal and vertical expanses of the Carpathian Mountains. I was so overtaken by the view, that I decided to return to this area on my summer vacation of 2014 — and yet again in 2018, and now, in 2019.

At times, magical, and at times dirty and broken down, cuddled by clouds and mountains, the old town of Kronstadt lives on, as the heart of Braşov, amidst the constant tears of time.

Zoe eventually completed her manuscript draft and went back to the US. I stayed behind, watching the seasons change, from summer to fall, to a touch of winter.

It would take almost a year for me to realise that I was seriously ill, but my body was already fighting a dangerous intruder. All I knew was that, for some reason, I was growing sleepless and exhausted. Then, I began feeling intoxicated. Could it be because of the eggs, or the gluten in the bread? A little beer gave me a bad reaction as well. I even stopped having my morning coffee. But no amount of abstention seemed to be helpful.

"The insect bite, back in July, in upstate New York; that must be it!" I concluded that I had been bitten by a spider — although I never saw it — and that my body was still dealing with some remnant toxins. "An antihistamine should help with the allergic reaction" — I thought to myself. And with a daily dose of loratadine, I got through the autumn.

Around those days, a Romanian friend of mine told me of a dream she had. She seemed frightened by her apocalyptic nightmare, which she read as a bad omen.

My friend said that in her dream, she was hearing the word for the number four. To which I replied: "'Four' stands for four-titude, four-sight, four-giveness, and..." And before I could say the fourth 'four,' she interjected: "No, in Romanian the sound for 'four' is 'patru.'" To which I responded: “That's fine. I don't think that the world is going to end soon. But, if you find yourself going through tough times, just remember your 'fours.' You are strong — remember your fortitude —, you can overcome any challenge when you are able to see past your own fear — remember your foresight —, and, whatever happens, continue to create beauty in the world around you — offer your support, forgive those who've wronged you, forgive yourself for your own shortcomings, and start anew. If you do that, whatever happens, you'll be alright."

Tough times were on their way alright. And not just for my friend or for me, but for the whole world. Who would have thought? The year 2020 would soon come along and teach us all something about fortitude, something about foresight, and, with any luck, something about forgiveness.

By the time I left Romania in November, I was feeling a little better. The loratadine had done its trick, up to a point. I didn't know it then, but the antihistamine wasn't only helping with the "allergic reaction." It was, in fact, interfering with the pathogen's metabolism, thus, slowing down the spread of the infection.

It wouldn't be until many months later that I would fall seriously ill — with arthritic, muscular, neurological, cognitive and cardiological complications — and finally realise that there was something really wrong, run tests, and discover the true cause of my malaise. Four-titude would indeed be soon required.

The year 2020 (a year number 4, according to numerology: 2 + 0 + 2 + 0 = 4) was soon to begin, and the whole world would be shaken up by it. The new year would find me in Mexico, which is where this story's next chapter shall continue.

But before we leave Braşov, let's have one last stroll around the old town — wearing a knee brace!