The irony seemed lost on my fellow-travelers, forty folk-dancers and musicians from all over the world. Not that they were unacquainted with certain myths the mention of “Transylvania” conjures... but to enthusiasts of folk art, Transylvania isn’t the seat of vampirism, but of Hungarian and Romanian folk culture. Because the land is remote, the roads crude and the government still somewhat oppressive, that culture still appears largely untouched by the twentieth century.

Into the darkness we headed, our huge bus roaring down narrow highways. Villages flashed by under occasional streetlamps, and I felt mountains rise under the bus. We were destined for the small village of Méra, where the organizers of the trip had arranged for us to stay the first three days with the inhabitants. Though we arrived halfway between midnight and morning, our hosts greeted us with dinner and homemade pálinka (brandy).

Three other women and I stayed with a villager named Kati, and her mother and daughter. Even at 2 a.m., Kati eagerly showed us her house. In Transylvanian villages, every house, no matter how poor, has a tiszta szoba(literally a ‘neat room’), whose sole purpose is to store the folk art and costumes created by generations. Like a nineteenth-century parlor, it is generally only entered on momentous occasions such as weddings, funerals, or visits from a tour bus full of foreigners. We walked into a dazzling display of traditional art – cabinets, benches and tables all exquisitely hand-painted by the many generations who had lived and died in that house. In that region, Kalotaszeg, red patterns dominated, scarlet flowers and birds flourishing symmetrically over white backgrounds. The variations in style resembled family differences, the wealth of creativity overpowering.

Just as overpowering was Kati’s pálinka. Though Kati held us spellbound with details of her past and her present widowhood, weaving dark tales of life under the deposed dictator Nicolae CeauSescu, conversation eventually ebbed. We turned in for the night, one of us in the embroidered bed in the tiszta szoba.

I awoke to a surprising lack of hangover in the bright morning. Kati was already up and bustling in the kitchen with her mother. Kati’s mother Mari dressed in dark blue, with head scarf and apron, looking as if she had stepped out of the medieval era. Like her fellow villagers, she made no pretention of being any younger than she was, around sixty.

Kati wore a skirt and blouse of gently clashing patterns, faded but spotless. Cheerfully weary, she brought my fellow travelers and me platters of meat rolls, chicken, eggplant sauce, mild peppers known as paprika – and bread. Hungarians are famous for their bread. In some regions they call it simply élet: “life.” To our astonishment, a bottle of pálinka was set on the table as well, which most of us (I’m not telling who) ignored.

We fell back into the conversation of the previous night. That is, Kati and I did; of my companions, only I spoke Hungarian, translating for the others. “You said CeauSescu punished a village?” I prompted Kati.

“He drowned it, she said. “He destroyed a nearby dam and let it flood the village. You can still see the steeple of the church sticking out of the middle of the lake.” This was apparently not an isolated cruelty. During his era, thousands of villages were slated for “renovation,” a euphemism. Transylvania’s inhabitants include Hungarians, Romanians, Saxons and Roma (Gypsies), among others. Inevitably, the various groups stepped on each other’s toes in the struggle for cultural survival. A Romanian, CeauSescu’s technique for homogenizing the country was to annihilate its history, in particular traditionally Hungarian villages. Before he could complete his program of leveling and reconstruction in glum 1970’s socialist style CeauSescu was assassinated. Apparently, even the Romanians had had enough.

“Tell Kati this is delicious!” one of the Americans, Maureen, begged me, pointing emphatically to the chicken. The chicken had “graduated” mere hours ago from Kati’s backyard, and tasted great (Transylvania is not a comfy place for vegetarians). Kati showed us the backyard, apologizing profusely for wreckage caused by a recent flood. Like every other villager, she kept chickens, pigs, sheep and a horse in the yard. The flood had tipped over the wooden cart the family used for their crops, but had fortunately spared the outhouse. Apart from the path of the flood, bucolic peace reigned in the yard. Three generations of mutt watched contentedly over their charges, the oldest asleep in the sun.

Out of the yard, with a clucking retinue of hens, we proceeded down the sole road in the village, which the tour leader had dubbed Csirkeszar Utca(Chicken Shit Street). My companions looked with envy at my Doc Martens as dust rose from the road and pebbles insinuated themselves into shoes. As curious about us as we were about them, the villagers stuck their heads out of windows, and threw open their high wooden gates. Except for the occasional satellite dish, the scene appeared much as it might have a century ago, identifiably Transylvanian. A thirteenth-century church dominated the village. Ornate wooden carvings decorated the cottages, painted white, green or vibrant blue. Men of all ages wore white shirts, dark vests and hats. Women were more colorful, in bright scarves, skirts, aprons and bodices, less a dress code than a color code: the older the woman, the greater the percentage of darker colors, symbolizing her loss and mourning. Only the most aged (and I, of course) wore all black. Still, even the old were vigorous, stamping around supervising the yard, carrying heavy loads, unafflicted by the rickety look of the elderly in America.

Later that evening was a wedding, to which we were invited. Dressing traditionally for such occasions, the villagers also lent us skirts, headdresses, petticoats, blouses, bodices, scarves, aprons. We gathered in the old church, not recognizing each other at first. Putting on the past was strange for most of the group, but exhilarating for me. For a moment I envisioned myself in the great cycle of tradition, a chain of generations living close to the land, growing up, marrying, giving birth, aging, dying.

From a modern urban perspective, such a life was almost frightening to contemplate – how would solitary pursuits like art, or alternative beliefs go over? No doubt the individualists in villages yearn to go to the cities; yet now I can understand an Eastern European urbanite’s nostalgia for the land, the simplicity, vigor and flavor of the country. To remain in such a past is a choice Americans do not have; I was fortunate enough to see it living in the present.