Ancient ways of living and eating thrive in the Transylvanian countryside. Just North of Bucharest, I left this century behind, and an hour later, the last one fell by the wayside, too. As I slowed the car to turn onto a dusty country road, a farmer in blue serge overalls stopped pitch-forking freshly scythed hay just long enough to give a wave, and the honeyed scent of linden flowers wafted in through the open car windows.