In Transylvania in 1969 on the other side of Farkaslak at a bend in the mountain road an old woman motioned us to stop. Not the usual hitchhiker, this was a peasant dressed in black, a basket on her back, her graying hair tucked under the customary kerchief. She squeezed into the seat holding her canvas basket on her lap and like someone paying for a ticket held out a pastry wrapped in a napkin. A pastry made with curd cheese and dill creamy on top and golden on the bottom it had been baked at dawn that very day in an outdoor oven in some snowy courtyard. She got on well with you, my friends. Though we didn't spend the night in merriment we did enjoy ourselves and I couldn't help but feel that someone had been waiting there for me.