Bite into Romania's colorful past

The hoarse crow of the neighbor's rooster stirs me from sleep. Beneath my window, the steady clip of horse hooves leads a rattling wagon. An oncoming cry geamuri (windows) grows louder.

Shuffling to the window, I spot a dusty bent-over man with wooden window frames strapped to his back.

A Gypsy boy approaches from the opposite direction carrying brooms made of sticks. As if performing a duet, he shouts his wares in a slow, deep baritone in tandem with the window man.

No, this isn't a movie set for the latest Dickens or Tolstoy remake. It's a typical morning in Transylvania's provincial capital, Cluj-Napoca. A place where stepping back in time begins by looking out your window.

My Romanian-born husband and I had pulled off the fast lane of our New York lives and, temporarily, set up home here.

Though Transylvania is more prosperous than the rest of Romania, sputtering economic reform keeps this overlooked corner of the Austro-Hungarian Empire looking more like the 19th century than the 21st.

Most Westerners' perception of Transylvania derives from "Dracula," Bram Stoker's classic novel. And, like most Westerners, Stoker never set foot here.

Transylvania literally means the "land beyond the forest." Situated on the western side of the thickly forested Carpathian Mountains – home to Europe's largest wolf and bear populations – it retains its Central European past.

Cluj-Napoca is one of the seven sister cities built by the Saxons, who arrived from Germany in the 12th century. They also built more than 500 fortified villages throughout the region, many of which are kept up today.

Historically, Transylvania has been populated by a mix of Romanians, Hungarians, Germans, Jews, and Gypsies (now known as Roma or Romany). Cluj-Napoca, like most Transylvanian cities, also has a Hungarian (Koloszvár) and a German (Klausenburg) name. Napoca was recently added, emphasizing the city's Roman origins.

In downtown Cluj, as the locals call it, you're swept into an elegant mix of gabled roofs and pastel-colored baroque, Gothic, and Art Nouveau facades.

Cafes, reminiscent of Hapsburg coffeehouses, bustle with university students. In the summer, alfresco dining springs up in the airy courtyards of former palaces.

Chic students aimlessly meander along narrow cobbled streets in platform shoes while gabbing into their mobile phones. Romany flower-sellers are perched on every corner.

Exploring here makes you feel as if you've stumbled upon a great find, unlike in tourist-weary cities such as Prague. Even hunting for postcards is an adventure tempting you into old bookstores called anticariat.

After making your purchase, stroll to the post office where you can join the locals in attaching your stamps to the cards with glue. Everyone sits patiently around two wooden tables sharing glass bottles of glue.

From there, it's a short trek across the street to the unofficial "gold quarter." Romanies in traditional dress flock around a dozen or so bijuterie, or jewelry shops, buying and selling gold.

The women, nibbling on sunflower and pumpkin seeds, are draped in layers of bright floral skirts and scarves that give them a passing resemblance to colorful birds.

The men, decked out in black, look like Mexican cowboys with their black, broad-rimmed hats and droopy mustaches.

Thirty percent of the population of Cluj is made up of Hungarians, who have their own theater, high school, newspapers, and university classes in their language. The two ethnic groups are trying to maintain a somewhat peaceful coexistence.

Cluj is a good spot from which to explore other hidden treasures of the region.

Journey through the Transylvanian countryside and you are immersed in a medieval tapestry of rolling green hills sprinkled with haystacks, scythe-wielding peasants, forests that seem to go on forever, ancient fortresses and castles, and a stream of horse-drawn wagons in lieu of tractors or cars.

It's not unusual to see Romany caravans of covered wagons resting by the road.

The silver domes of churches and monasteries gleam like overturned chalices in the distance.

Two hours north by car is the region of Maramures, bordering Ukraine – a region so isolated that the villagers still wear embroidered folk dress even while working the fields.

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