Why Is It Always Miercurea?
(…and why poor Vinerea never made it past the brainstorming stage)
You’ve probably noticed it too. (I certainly did while scouting bike trails.) Drive anywhere in Transylvania for more than twenty‑four minutes and you will be greeted by misty hills, the distant clank of cow bells, and, without fail, a road sign proudly announcing yet another Miercurea‑Something: Miercurea Sibiului. Miercurea Ciuc. Miercurea Nirajului. It’s like someone at the medieval naming committee fell asleep on a Wednesday and never recovered. Even the cows have started to ask, “Darling, which Miercurea are we chewing our cud in today?” And yet, no Vinerea de Jos. No Lunea Mare. Just poor, underrepresented weekdays waiting for their turn on the map.
What happened then? How, exactly, did Wednesday corner the Transylvanian branding department while Friday was sent out to pasture like an over‑taxed ox? Let's unpack this.
The Great Market Accord of 1377
(Documented here for the first - and surely last - time) According to absolutely no preserved charter, a crisis meeting was convened outside Mediaș late in the 14th century. Saxon guild‑masters, Hungarian scribes and a Romanian shepherd (who wandered in looking for a goat) were tasked with choosing an official market day that: would not upset the Almighty, could be pronounced after two cups of sour wine, and might be remembered by a messenger even after a light concussion.
The Saxons, slaves to Teutonic efficiency, championed Tuesday. The Hungarians argued for Thursday - apparently pálinka tastes better then. The shepherd, ever pragmatic, simply asked, “What’s left?” Several mistranslated proverbs, three fist‑fights and a ceremonial spit‑shake later, the exhausted committee settled on the one day no one particularly loved or loathed: Wednesday. Neutral, uninspiring, utterly unclaimed. Decision ratified, kegs tapped, goat located. Thus Miercurea - Romanian for Wednesday - was elevated from a mid‑week shrug to a cartographic epidemic.
Why Wednesday worked and Friday failed
In medieval Transylvania Wednesday = market day. Villagers emerged from hay‑stuffed cottages armed with wheels of questionable cheese, deliberated over smoked trout, and did their best to dodge Sfânta Vineri - Saint Friday herself - who had a habit of appearing unannounced, offering unsolicited psalms and samples of her nettle ale. Friday, meanwhile, was a fast day: the Orthodox avoided meat, the Catholics dodged dairy and the Protestants eyed everyone else suspiciously. Commerce on a collective fast? You’d sooner find a Hungarian bishop in a Romanian tavern.
Naming a settlement Vinerea felt positively frivolous - an open invitation to plague, famine and the disapproving glare of every passing monk. (There is one village called Vinerea, near Cugir, it must be said, but even the locals whisper the name and keep their beans soaking quietly. No funny business. Just survival.)
Transylvania was, and remains, a curious trilingual petri dish. The Saxons, meticulous as ever, kept tidy towns and Latin records. The Hungarians wielded influence and paprika. The Romanians had resilience, goats, and very long village names. In this melting pot, naming conventions collided. But Miercurea won hearts. Why? Simplicity. Utility. Familiarity. Plus, if you forgot which town you were in, you could say "Miercurea Something" and odds were you’d be right. There’s something pleasing about naming a place after a predictable recurrence.
Avoiding Sfanta Vineri (Saint Friday)
Legend paints Sfânta Vineri as kindly yet stern; invoke her name lightly and risk a lifetime of squeaky cart wheels and lukewarm polenta. Best leave Friday to the prayers and abstinence, and keep it off the welcome signs. Hence the regional rule of thumb:
Wednesday for wheeling and dealing, Friday for fasting and feelings of vague remorse.
PS: From Miercurea to Sâmbăta de Sus - a Long Weekend Drive for the Adventurous
Say you’ve left Miercurea Sibiului with a boot full of dubious cheese and a glove‑box jangling with Saxon pfennigs. What happens next? The DN1 snakes eastward like a mildly disgruntled dragon.
Kilometre 14 – You overtake a horse cart. The driver waves vaguely. You take it as “Drum bun!” in Romanian, “Jó utat!” in Hungarian, and something vaguely threatening in medieval German.
Kilometre 37 – A roadside stall advertises “Wednesday‑Only Cabbage Rolls.” The sign stays up all week. Nobody complains.
Kilometre 52 – You pass what looks suspiciously like Joia Mică scratched on a plank. The plank is nailed to nothing. Local legend says every time someone suggests naming a village after Thursday, the plank is moved twenty metres down the road out of sheer embarrassment and mild superstition.
Kilometre 70 – The Făgăraș peaks appear, smug and cinematic. Even the water buffalo pause to admire themselves.
Kilometre 79 – A handwritten board promises “Sfânta Vineri‑Approved Fast‑Day Pastrami.” You keep driving. Nobody needs that paradox.
At last, you roll into Sâmbăta de Sus - Transylvania’s official endorsement of Saturday living. Here, the air smells of spruce and semi‑legitimate wellness retreats. Monks bottle spring water as if launching a boutique gin brand. (strictly speaking it’s holy water, but the ABV is faith) There’s a gentle hum of contentment; after all, no one fasts on a Saturday, and spa robes are basically sanctioned leisurewear.
Travel tip: order the trout, book the hot‑tub, and toast the mapmakers of 1377. They gave us a week of Miercuri, paved the road to a perfect Sâmbătă, and, if rumour is to be believed, unleashed a goat that still wanders the hillsides, inspecting markets and shaking its head at overpriced cheese.
So next time you spot a Miercurea sign, tip your hat to those long‑gone marketeers. And when you finally ease into the thermal waters of Sâmbăta de Sus, spare a thought for poor Vinerea - forever fasting, forever frowning, forever left off the itinerary.
Happy Friday, everyone!
Footnote: The shepherd’s goat from 1377? Never seen again. Some say it became a spectral presence, appearing only when someone suggests renaming a Miercurea. Others say it retired to Sâmbăta de Sus, where it now runs a quiet trout-smoking operation.