behind door number nine

Nikon D80 | 1/80 seconds | f 5.6 | ISO 160 | 90 mm [left side]
Nikon D80 | 1/80 seconds | f 3.5 | ISO 1250 | 18 mm [right side]
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I remember as if it was yesterday. But it’s almost a year now. We were on the way to Sighisoara, beloved place of my next to come dreams. The lady at with we were suppose to stay canceled the reservation at the last moment, but with some help we managed to find another place to stay. At first, it sounded strange on the phone: “yes we have just one room and actually you we’ll be our first guests to sleep in it”.

After five hours driving on a not so welcoming weather we arrived at the fortress gates. We were told that it’s possible to enter on the narrow paved streets with our cars. And after just another five minutes, there we were, in front of door number nine.
Just one meter from it a little store inviting you to buy souvenirs. We met our host inside. She was a souvenir to take her self with a delicate smile and all so dressed in an original medieval outfit. The things became even stranger when she gave us the keys: two long rusted and heavy iron keys.

We stood now in front of the door number nine like we were in front of the rabbit’s magic whole. As we will have to find out later, the house was a historical monument and it had only three rooms, all redecorated recently. It was a family treasure and a family small business.

The door opened with an ancient voice in the background. We weren’t sure anymore of anything. The knotty wall seamed more like those of a cave. At the right a little garden carved in stone. It looked so intimate with that only for two bench and those half-melted candles.

We fallowed the winding stairs up to the first floor. There she was. Another era recreated in the smallest details. I should not unveil any of them. It’s not a place to be told about it, but a place to discover in person.

Shortly after this charming encounter I will have to return. I will have to have a prelude and an afterglow on the ledge of the bathrooms window. I will have to eat one of the best pies I have ever tasted and take in account that I’m not a very good friend with the sweets. I will have to climb the almost 200 stairs nearby the house until it will take my breath away. I will have to get married in the beautiful church up the hill seven months later. That special is this place for me.

“Every wall is a door.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson [american poet, lecturer and essayist. 1803-1882]