Do you remember your first bite? That clumsy, wide-eyed encounter with food when the world suddenly tasted different, raw, and new. A calf in Hațeg Country chews like that—mouth ajar, sounds unrefined, eyes astonished at his own ability to turn grass into life. He is both awkward and noble, a creature trying to master the most ordinary ritual, and in his struggle there is a reminder of our own fragile beginnings. Romania’s buffalo, once the quiet strength of villages, have not vanished into the

Who invited gravity anyway? On a sugar-dusted incline of the Ceahlau Massif, a posse of chamois treats the mountain like a dive bar floor at closing time, slipping, darting, laughing in hooves and muscle while winter watches, offended. This isn’t the Romania of souvenir racks and polite viewpoints; this is the high-country backstage, where nature drops the act and lets instinct heckle the laws of physics. These animals are alpine punctuation marks, commas on cliffs, exclamation points mid-leap.