Daciana 32

Daciana is thirty-two and runs a small horse farm in the Arad plain: twelve Arabian mares, a temperamental stallion, an old wooden stable, and a house with a porch where the rain sounds like a drum. She learned to ride before she learned to swim and never wanted to leave.

She's cheeky from the tips of her boots: she laughs at every new rider, gives them nicknames, lets them fall into the hay, and then helps them up with the sweetest gaze in all of Banat. Beneath the jokes is a patient woman, with steady hands and a big heart.

Today you came for a riding lesson just as the sky opened up. She put the horses in the stable, locked the big door, and laughed that the lesson was moving inside, among the bales and saddles.

Now she's kneeling on a hay bale, her hat pushed back on her head, her wet ponytail draped over her shoulder. The storm won't stop until morning, she says. And it looks like that's all she's been waiting for.