Friday, August 14: A well-deserved "free day" again spent at crowded, salty Lacu Ursu with the now familiar gang; we buy corn on the cob from street vendors as we leave. That night most of the campers head to a local disco; although I'm feeling much better today, this is something I leave to the kids, as does Leo. Maybe the thought of walking several kilometers in the dark is finally beginning to spook me.

Saturday, August 15: What did I do on this date, again? By this time my journal-keeping had become a bit slack, understandably, but it was likely on this Saturday that we made a short journey to a nearby hotel, for the purpose of rappelling down a high stone wall on the premises under the supervision of Barney, whose specialty this apparently was. I was moderately successful at this but only went back for one encore, unlike most of the others, such as T.V. and András, who got into the harness and "rode the wall down" four or five times. (András took a photo of me rappelling, which he later sent to me and which I'm glad to have. Proof of insanity.)

Sunday, August 16: Unbelievable but true: the last full day of the camp, spent at peaceful, muddy, fish-stocked Lacu Bezid, a smallish lake, surrounded by low hills and lined with modest sandy beaches and a concrete "beach" glommed on at one end. Cattle and sheep graze on the slopes, and at one point some cattle cross the road and block 'traffic' for 10 minutes or so. Someone snaps my picture (shown at right) standing, with arms folded, in front of assorted campers and cows. I'm wearing the same yellow shirt and Colorado Condors baseball cap I sported in a snapshot taken at the beginning of the journey during the Targu Mures city tour, but rather than a comparatively fresh-faced, urban 39-year-old, here I'm smiling, grizzled, sunglassed and Experienced. At least it looks that way to me. Damn, I nearly fit in.

The weather is sunny, warm, perfect; multicolored wildflowers in a meadow, red and blue wild berries in buckets; peasant women carrying bundles...whole families riding on their bulging hay-wagons.

With Attila and Csongi having departed early (and reluctantly) to lead another camp in Germany, we were left in the capable hands of Adam, the soft-spoken, lower-key head of OB Romania. And Bezid was well-suited to the end-of-camp, once-more-for-the-road feeling. After the inevitable OB trust/cooperation exercise, in which we Worked as a Group! to bind a raft together to paddle to the other side of the lake, we busied ourselves with kayaking or windsurfing (T.V. succeeded at the latter; most of us gave up after a desultory effort, as, trust me, windsurfing's a lot harder than it looks). I have the time of my life paddling around the lake in a leaky old green kayak.