Mike in Romania

Back in the land of big cars, frozen foods and green money

2009-11-02T03:46:00.017+02:00

So I'm back. I've been here for nearly three weeks now.

After being away for almost two and a half years, I was a bit worried that coming back to the US would be a shocking experience. I wondered what sort of things I'd have to readjust to upon 'reentry.' I wondered if I'd feel out of place. Just as I'd had to adapt to Romanian culture, I thought perhaps my return to the States would require a similar period of adjustment.

My conjectures turned out to be partly true, partly exaggerated. My first day back felt very strange, surreal even. I couldn't believe that after all this time I was back on my native soil. However, as those initial feelings of weirdness dissipated, I wasn't confronted with the sort of sweeping cultural shock that I had vaguely imagined. On the whole, things seem fairly normal. And, there are certainly many things about life in the States that I appreciate more after being away for so long.

Nevertheless, I keep noticing lots of little things here and there that strike me as odd. For example, on the highway from New York to Connecticut, I couldn't help but notice the sheer number of big cars. I mean, it seemed like every other vehicle was a truck or SUV. They say things are big in America, but only now do I see how true this is. When I got home, I was astonished at the size of our kitchen refrigerator. 'Good God,' I thought, 'I could probably fit four medium-sized adults in there and still have room for a casserole!' Things here are just big. Period. Even tubes of toothpaste are huge! Although, there is at least one item that's decidedly smaller around these parts: the common beer bottle.

I've also had issues with the money. First off, the bills just look plain weird. After not seeing greenbacks for such a long time, their shape seems odd to me now, as does their green color. Secondly, I've been struggling with the idea that 4 quarters equal one dollar (despite the fact that they're called 'quarters,' which should be an immediate tip-off). Their size and weight remind me of Romanian 50 Bani pieces, or 50 Euro-cent pieces. Thus, I automatically assume that 2 quarters equal 100 cents. At the JFK airport I wanted to use a payphone to call my parents and let them know I'd landed (cost: $1.00, clearly marked on the front of the payphone). I put in two quarters and attempted to make the call. Of course, the machine wouldn't put the call through, but I sat there for a good ten minutes trying and trying again, scratching my head after each failed attempt.

Another thing is transportation. In Europe I got quite used to being able to ride my bike or walk just about anywhere in town. However, here the towns tend to be much more spread out and walking/biking is not always easy, safe or practical. I'm finding this point a bit difficult to adjust to. I've promised myself to ride a bicycle as much as possible (and one of my first activities upon coming home was to get my old bike back into working order). Although, having said this, I have to admit that being able to drive again is pretty liberating.

Other things of note:
--I've returned to find the country in the throes of controversy over a public health care system, a controversy that seems silly to me.
--For many Americans, the DMV is a source of dread. The long lines and disgruntled employees are to be avoided at all costs. However, I have to say that my most recent trip to the DMV to register my truck was a walk in the park compared to many of my service experiences in Romania.
--Everyone has an iPhone and they're all twittling and tweeting about websites, movies, tv shows, music and all sorts of other stuff that I've been missing out on.
--It's strange to have access to dishwashers and microwaves. At one point my mother walked into the kitchen to find me washing some dishes by hand. She said to me, 'Michael we have a dishwasher, you know.' The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.
--A few things have changed here and there, but most everything seems to have stayed the same. Even still my perception has changed, and I'm looking at everything with new eyes. There are many familiar old places or things that seem somehow unfamiliar to me now, and even my home doesn't completely feel like my home anymore.

All in all, it's good to be back. I'm living with mom and dad for the time being. I'm currently pretty busy helping them finish a new addition off the back of the house. I've also been spending a lot of time reconnecting with family and friends. My first meal after the return flight was good ol' Pepe's pizza, but I still have a long list of specialty foods that I'm craving. I'm looking forward to this Thanksgiving moreso than ever before. Mmmm, pumkin cheesecake!

So, what's my next step? The simple answer is I have no idea whatsoever. I'm hoping to find a job somewhere, doing something. But as far as specific plans go, I haven't got any ideas yet. However, I'm sure it'll all come together. In fact, this stage is pretty exciting. I'm not really tied down anywhere, and nearly anything is possible. It's like a new beginning!

So my journey has ended; my time as a Peace Corps volunteer is now behind me. As such, I bring this blog to a close. Time to start the next chapter...

Drumul in continuare...

2009-10-11T21:18:00.013+03:00

At this point I'm almost home! I'm currently in Dublin, where I'll stay until my flight to JFK on Wednesday.

Since my last update a lot has happened. Here are some highlights:

-Bremen with my friend Ioana and her gang of housemates. I stayed there for about 10 days, and ate more bratwurst. I also caught some performances of an international theater festival that was going on at the time. In addition, I managed to fix one of the many non-functioning bikes in the backyard and went for some rides through the countryside outside of Bremen. There were also walks through the city center, and a visit to the science museum, called Universum. From Bremen I also made side trips to other places, like Hamburg, or the North Sea.

-Amsterdam, where I stayed with two couchsurfing hosts. There I also got around by bike, and it seems the rest of the city does as well (I experienced bicycle traffic for the first time). I spent a lot of time getting lost, but eventually managed to get a map and find my way around (the concentric design of the city literally threw me for a loop). Of course, I checked out some of the red-light district; it's everything they say it is. And, I also got a bagel at Gary's Deli, spent some time strolling through Vondel park and missed my bus to Paris. So, I ended up staying in Amsterdam an extra day, which afforded me some time to check out the van Gogh museum.

-Paris was awesome! I stayed with a friend and former PC colleague. She just moved into her apartment, and the only pieces of 'furniture' she had were a bed and a coffee maker. While there, I was stunned by the city's size and grandeur. There's just so much to see and do, and it's all so classy. I experienced many a fine meal, lots of great wine, good bread and, of course, croissants. On top of that, the deserts were simply out of this world (the best tarte tatin ever). Of course I went to the Louvre, which was great, but a little overwhelming. I have to say, I actually preferred the Musee d'Orsay (I easily spent 4.5 hours there). I walked along the Champs Elysees, went to the Eiffel Tower, took in the sights at the Tuileries garden, visited Notre Dame, and explored the Monmartre district. I spent my last night in Paris at a house party before taking the train to London the next day.

-More house parties in London. In fact, one was going on when I arrived at my hosts' place in East London (there was homemade cheesecake and a banjo and flute duet, might I add). One of my hosts also took me a lovely autumn bike ride along the canals of East London, past Victoria Park and right out of town to Epping forest. On the way I caught a glimpse of the construction site for the 2012 Olympics. We stopped along the way at a canal-side pub for a few pints of Fuller's.

-Ireland. I decided to hitchhike from London, which was both a good and a bad choice. It all started one gloomy morning in London. The skies were ominously grey, and the rain was drizzling lightly. Nevertheless, the weather seemed like it might clear up, so I held out hope for the best and boarded a train to High Wycombe (the town from which I planned to hitch north).

When I got to Wycombe, I had to walk across town and trek up a huge hill until I got to the junction with the main motorway. Luckily the rain seemed to be holding off, and though the skies were still grey, it seemed that perhaps the clouds would burn off fairly soon. I plopped down my bags on the side of the road, took out my sign (which read: "North (Ireland)") and stood there with a pleasant smile on my face, feeling lucky. However, my luck was soon to change. No more than five minutes passed before the torrential rains started, and they didn't let up for the rest of the time. Needless to say, I got soaked. I stood there for nearly two hours before a truck stopped. The driver was a Polish fellow named Tomek. He said he was going to 'Beer-meeng-haam,' with a short stop in 'Kes-ham.' Because of his thick accent, it took me a moment to realize that 'Beer-meeng-haam' was in fact Birmingham, which was on my way. I climbed in, happy to get out of the rain.

I later found out that 'Kes-ham,' where he had to make a quick delivery, was the small hamlet of Chesham. He showed me his delivery papers, where I saw the address written out. It was only 24km out of the way, so I didn't mind. However, what he promised to be a short side trip tunred out to be a 3.5 hour ordeal.

First of all, Tomek's GPS unit directed him down little country roads that were barely wide enough for his giant truck, let alone on-coming traffic. It was one of those situations where once you start down the road, there's no turning back (litterally, because there was no place where he could turn the rig around). For most of the way the roads were lined with tall, thick hedges on either side. In fact, the hedges were so close to the edge of the road that there wasn't any room to pull off to the sides. So, when on-coming cars came along we had to stop, reverse a bit and let them squeeze past, which made for slow going. We weren't the only ones having problems, however. At one point we encountered a roadblock caused by a box truck and a garbage truck that had gotten stuck as one tried to pass the other. Apparently the box truck had tried to go around the garbage truck, driving up onto the small dirt embankment. But the embankment was a bit too steep, and the truck tipped over enough to bump into the garbage truck's trailer. There was nothing to do but stop, get out and try to help seperate the two trucks (meanwhile the traffic was piling up). Eventually we got them apart and we were on our way.

With our luck we got into the town of Chesham and of course got hopelessly lost amidst the tangle of narrow streets and one-way roads. At one point I had Tomek stop, and I got out with the delivery papers to ask for directions to the address. The man at the shop drew me a map, which I used to give Tomek directions (using hand gestures because he didn't really understand English). It took a while, but we got to the delivery point. On our way out we ended up getting lost again in a residential area where we had no choice but to turn around, an impossible feat. In the process we hit a parked car, tore up someone's lawn, completely ran over a street sign and nearly took out a lamp post, all to the complete shock and disgust of the on-looking locals. After about 20 minutes of swearing and cursing in Polish, Tomek finally manged to weasle his way out and we were back on the motorway.

Unfortunately, because our little side trip had taken so much time, Tomek wasn't able to make it to Birmingham that day. He had to stop in Oxford, where he dropped me off at the highway service station. I hung out in the trucker's lot, holding up my sign hoping that someone was going my way. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anyone heading North on the M40, or at least no one that was willing to take a passenger. Then, finally, I found a Czech trucker who said he was going do Dublin. The catch was that he was leaving at midnight, and the time at that point was only 4:30 pm. I said I'd look elsewhere to see if I could get a ride a bit sooner.

So, I stood at the exit of the gas station, holding out my sign. It was like most people didn't see me, or didn't want to look at me. A few kind souls stopped to inquire, but it turned out they weren't going my way. Eventually, an Irish lad pulled up. He seemed rather excited that I was going to Ireland, and said he'd be happy to drive me to Dublin. He kept saying it was my lucky day. But he really meant it was his lucky day. Long story short, he swindled me out of 70 pounds, took me for a ride to his home in a nearby trailer park and almost got me in a fight with a gang of his mates. Luckily, I got out of that situation and walked back to the service station. I was glad that at least they didn't hurt me or steal any of my belongings.

Back at the service station, I kept waiting and waiting for a ride. By about 6:30 it was getting dark, and I figured my chances of getting a ride were pretty much nill. So, I resigned to the idea of forcing myself to stay awake until midnight and go with that Czech driver. If for any reason that didn't work, I knew I could always stay at the nearby Day's Inn for the night.

So, the plan at that point was just to wait (the driver was sleeping, so I didn't want to disturb him). I went into the service station to use the facilities, got a coffee and some KFC, and looked at my road atlas to kill the time. I went back out at midnight, and luckily the truck was still there, shades drawn. I waited about 15 minutes for the driver to wake up. He saw me waiting in front of his truck and immediately recognized me from earlier.

His name was something I couldn't for the life of me manage to pronounce, something that sounded like Gus (so I'll just call him that). Like, Tomek, he didn't speak a lick of English. But, unlike Tomek (who didn't shut up the whole time I rode with him), Gus was extremely quiet. I tried to start up a conversations a few times, but they never went anywhere. So, I had a very quiet ride to through Wales to the port at Holyhead where we were to catch the ferry. We got there by 6:00, and becuase I came in on a truck, the guards thought I was a trucker. So, I got free passage on the ferry, as well as a cabin with bed, a free breakfast and access to the trucker's lounge. It was beyond my wildest dreams! The ferry ride was over 3 hours long, most of which I slept through. Once we got to Dublin, we got off the ferry and Gus dropped me off somewhere on the highway a bit outside Dublin. Just as you might expect, it was raining cats and dogs. From there I asked around how to get to the city center, found a tram and took it into town.

So, all in all I got from London to Dublin for virtually no money (if you don't count the 70 quid I lost...which I'd rather not count as a travel expense). I hadn't ever expected to get a ride staight to Dublin; I was originally planning to get a ride to Wales and just stay there for a day ro two. But, I was lucky enough to get a ride straight through, so I took it. Since I'd arrived in Dublin a day earlier than I'd planned, I didn't have any accomodations arranged. However, it was easy to find a cheap hostel for the night.

The next day I took a bus to the city of Navan, about an hour north of Dublin, where I stayed with a nice Polish couple. From there, I explored some of the surrounding area. It's incredible how much old stuff there is throughout the area! I went to visit one of the oldest man-made structures in the western hemishpere, the Newgrange megalithic tomb (also known as Bru na Boinne in Gaelic). It's basically a mound of dirt and rocks in a field that has a passageway leading to a burial chamber inside. At over 5,000 years old, the thing is even older than the pyramids of Giza! It's incredible to think that they managed to build the thing with stone blocks taken from over 70km away (some weighing over 5 tons). It took 60 years to build (and back then an average lifespan was about 25 years, so that means it took nearly 3 generations!).

The other day I went for a hike next to the river Boyne. Along the way I saw two castles, an old abbey, a mansion nestled in the woods, and on top of all that, I got absolutely drenched by the torrential downpours. The path somewhat ended a fews times, but I just kept following the river (which at some points took me through fields and private properties with signs like, "owner reserves right to shoot," or "turn back immediately"). After walking for about 8 miles, I reached the next town, Slane. The place is synonymous with St. Patrick because it was on the hill of Slane that St. Patrick lit an Easter fire to celebrate Christianity's triumph over paganism in the year 433. I went up to the hill of Slane to see the ruins of an old monastery built there in the 1500's. The rain was still coming down hard, and I was the only one up there, so I took shelter in the ruins of the old college and had a little lunch. It was so cool to be the only one there, and to have totally free reign in the ruins; you could walk all aorund them and inside them as well!

Just yesterday I went to the town of Trim, where they have a castle dating from the 1100's. I went on a guided tour inside the keep, and then just walked around the grounds for a while. This was actually the castle that they used to film Braveheart. I learnt many interesting things about the medieval castle design, such as the fact that they collected rain water for drinking (and if the enemy wanted to spoil their water supply, they'd catapult an animal carcass into it). Also, before they used tiled roofing, they used animal hides (which they would wet down before attack to prevent fires from flaming arrows). Also, they'd ward off attacks by boiling a mixture of sand and tallow (since they didn't have oil). Furthermore, it was common for noble living quarters to have a little hole in the corner of the room in which the inhabitant would relieve himself (the sewage would be carried by pipe down to a sort of holding tank. An interesting/disgusting side-note: it was common to hang clothing over the hole because the fumes that crept back up were effective in delousing). With regard to spiral staircases, they designed them to rotate clockwise for strategic reasons- if a right handed warrior were attacking up the steps, the spiral design would restrict the use of his fighting arm and force him to constantly turn his body and expose himself to attack (likewise, the steps were purposely made of differing heights and widths to trip up a hurrying attacker).

Today I'm back in Dublin, staying with an older Irish fellow named Loch. His place is a quaint little house with drafty doors, old books and lots of interesting trinkets scattered about. It's in the east of the city, near the harbor. Loch welcomed me with a cup of hot tea and some apple cake. He also gave me some maps and guidebooks and suggested that tomorrow I take his bicycle and go to check out the cliffs of Howth. It's supposed to be a beautiful day, so I think I will.

It's hard to believe that in three days' time I'll be home in the US! What a long, strange trip it's been...

On the road...

2009-09-13T11:09:00.009+03:00

Just a quick update:

I finally left Romania on September 4th, after one last get-together in the village of Jupani with Tibi, Simona, Tibi's mom and Simona's parents. Tibi cooked a paprikash for the farewell dinner, and cracked open some home-made walnut cognac that he'd been saving for a special occasion. The next morning Tibi and Simona saw me off at the train station. Flavia was also there, waiting for me; she surprised me with a big bag of food for the trip. Our goodbyes felt surreal. It all seemed as in a dream. I stuck my head out the window to wave farewell as the train slowly pulled away from the station. It was hard for me to believe that I wouldn't be returning any time soon. In fact, I'm still not sure that realization has fully set in.

From Romania, my first stop was Budapest. I stayed just for the weekend. I've been to Budapest so many times over the course of the past two years that I'm pretty familiar with the place. Thus, it was a good place to begin my westward journey. By complete coincidence, Liz (a fellow Peace Corps volunteer) and her family were in town. I met up with them, and we went out to dinner at Gerbeaud's.

Following Budapest was Vienna. Upon arrival I knew nothing about the city. Heck, I didn't even have a map, or any clue where I was going to spend the night. But, in the end it all worked out, and I got to know Vienna quite well. I stayed in a hostel the first few nights, but later managed to contact a girl through couchsurfing.org. She let me stay at her place in the south of the city. I was impressed by Vienna's elegance, incredible architecture and beautiful gardens. My host suggested some great things to see and do, and even took me out for a night time bike ride through the city. And in case you're wondering, yes, I did eat a wienerschnitzel.

I'm currently in Berlin. I got a ride with a guy who was driving from Vienna last Friday. We drove through Prague, and then up through Dresden at a speed I never would have imagined his little van could handle. Arriving in Berlin at about 1:oo am, I had nothing but an address and a phone number of the guy with whom I was supposed to stay. Eventually I found his apartment building, and tried giving him a ring, but my call wouldn't go through (I found out later that I was entering the country code incorrectly). I wasn't sure what to do. I was so tired that I actually thought about just setting my stuff down in front of his gate and falling asleep right there. However, realizing that was just silly, I went for a walk until I found a payphone, dialed the number, and finally got in contact with my host. He welcomed me graciously, even at 2:00 in the morning. No sleeping on the sidewalk for me!

Berlin is quite different from Vienna and Budapest, both of which are fairly relaxed, laid back cities. Berlin, by contrast, seems to be younger and more energetic. It's also incredibly multi-cultural-- you can find anyone from anywhere here. My host is a freelance photographer and lives in a great apartment in a hopping part of East Berlin. The day after my arrival, he took me for a quick tour of the city on his motorcycle! He even gave me a map and let me borrow one of his bicycles to go out and explore the city. I spent the majority of the afternoon yesterday riding around; the weather was perfect. I stumbled upon the East Side Gallery, a section of the Berlin wall that's still standing, which local artists have turned into a giant mural. I also got some lunch at a Turkish cafe and hung out in Alexanderplatz. But there's so much still to explore...

I think I'll stay in Berlin until Tuesday, when I'll head West to Bremen, the city where Beck's beer is brewed. I'll be staying with a Romanian friend who lives there. If I'm lucky, I'll have access to a computer and be able to write a bit more. Till the next update!

Ciao

The Journey Home

2009-09-01T23:44:00.004+03:00

So, it's over. I've finished my term as a Peace Corps volunteer.

It feels a bit weird. I officially closed my service yesterday, and ever since the realization has been slowly setting in. I feel like I've lost a part of my identity, and yet I feel somewhat liberated all at once. But most of all, I'm proud of myself for completing the 28 months, and I'm glad I can look back on my time with satisfaction.

The first thing I did after becoming a post-PCV was to buy a ticket home. I'll be flying out of Dublin on October 14th.

After my visit yesterday to the Peace Corps office in Bucuresti, I'm currently back in Ploiesti. It feels like I've completed a big circle--I started in Ploiesti, and I've returned here at the very end. I came to pay one last visit to Vili and Florina, my original host family. I didn't tell them I was coming, however, hoping to show up unexpectedly at their door. I bought some flowers, went to their apartment and knocked on the door. No answer. I tried once more, but still no answer. So much for the surprise, I thought. I decided to give them a ring, and found out they had left town and were on the road to visit some friends in a town just North of Ploiesti. After receiving my call, however, they decided to turn back around, and we had a nice last visit.

Tomorrow morning I'll head back to Lugoj for a couple days to say my final goodbyes. I've already said farewell to most everyone, paid my bills and moved out of my apartment. So, most things are wrapped up, but it's still hard to break away.

After Lugoj, I'll strap on my backpack and take the slow road West. My first stop will be Budapest, but I also plan to make stops in Austria, Germany and France before I get to Ireland in October. I'm currently without a laptop (having given it away), but we'll see if I can't post some updates at internet cafes along the way.

Here begins the journey home...

Carpathian Adventure 2009

2009-08-18T02:48:00.002+03:00

From album: Carpathian Adventure Race

Adio, Lugoj!

2009-08-17T10:33:00.004+03:00

I recently wrote a farewell letter to the town of Lugoj and sent it in to Redesteptarea, the local newspaper. Here's what I said:

School is over and my time here in Romania is quickly coming to a close. Unfortunately, I won’t be teaching English at Brediceanu next year. It is amazing how fast the past two years have gone! I can remember my arrival in Lugoj like it was yesterday. However, now it’s time for me to go home, to see family and friends, and return to the life that I left behind in the States.

Living here for the past two years, I’ve had opportunities to see and experience things that I would have never had anywhere else. I’ve met people that have become a big part of my life, and will remain my friends long after I leave. Above all, I’ve made numerous lasting memories, and even if I have to leave, I can always fondly remember my time here with friends, colleagues and students.

As one might expect, after living in Lugoj for 28 months, the town has become like a second home for me, which makes it all the harder to leave. Even while living abroad for such an extended period hasn’t always been easy, I’ve really enjoyed the experience.

I’ve learnt so much about Romania, its people, landscape, food, and culture. Two years ago, if someone had asked me what sarmale were, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I wouldn’t have had any conception of the beauty of the Carpathian Mountains, or the grandeur of the Danube. I wouldn’t have known about Banat’s long, rich history. I’ve come to discover all these things and so much more.

I’ve also learned quite a lot about everyday life in Romania, the good things and the bad. For example, I’ve had to deal with Romanian bureaucracy on more than one occasion, I’ve seen signs of corruption, witnessed how people trash nature, and I’ve become quite acquainted with just how bad roads can be. Romania, like anywhere, has its problems, and even while my experience here has been difficult at times, there have been countless happy moments. Moments like my first Christmas in Romania, when many of my friends and colleagues invited me into their homes and made me feel so welcome. I’ll also never forget last summer when a good friend took me to the village to teach me the ancient traditions of making hay and distilling tuica. Above all, I’ll always cherish the moments I had with my wonderful students. I’ll miss them, and I wish them all the best in the future!

I came here as a volunteer not only because I wanted to experience another part of the world and learn about a different culture, but also because I wanted to do something good for others. People often ask me, ‘Why would you be a volunteer? You don’t make any money!’ or, ‘Isn’t it hard to leave home for such a long time?’ And while, yes, it has been difficult to be away from my family for 2 years, and I haven’t made much money, the most important thing for me has always been the experience itself.

Volunteerism is perhaps more common in American culture than it is in Romania. It’s something that I’ve been doing ever since high school, and will probably continue for the rest of my life. For me, it’s important to be involved in society at large, to do something for the community in which I live. Volunteering is a great way to achieve these things. After all, a volunteer does his work not for himself, but to help others. This concept is an essential part of the ‘American spirit.’ But, I don’t think volunteering is something specific only to Americans; my students here have demonstrated to me a great desire to do good. I hope they foster that, and continue to act on it as they grow to become productive members of society.

I leave Lugoj on 28 August. It honestly pains me to go, but I won’t be gone forever. I promise to come back for a visit. I thank the town of Lugoj for everything it has shown me, taught me and given me. It’s been a great run. Farewell to all those who made it so!

Getting a Bit Nostalgic

2009-08-16T00:12:00.006+03:00

Things I'll miss about my time in Romania:
-the friends I've made (obviously)
-pickles (especially pickled watermelon!)
-hitchhiking
-buying beer in 2 liter bottles
-the slower lifestyle (i.e. 5-hour-long meals)
-being looked after by every mother in town
-summer vegetables (especially the tomatoes!)
-shopping for silly shirts in second-hand shops
-train rides through the mountains
-local honey

Things I won't miss so much:
-waiting in lines
-the permeating fragrance of body-odor on personal trains
-stray dogs
-animal slaughterings
-pork (I've eaten it so much over the past two years, I figure I'll take a break for a while)
-grapes with seeds
-the slower lifestyle (in that projects may not progress according to Western expectations)
-the frustrations of bureaucracy and rigid, incomprehensible rules

Things I'm looking forward to about the United States:
-seeing family
-ethnic food of all kinds
-seafood
-freeways
-customer service
-Pepe's pizza, New Haven CT

2009-08-11T14:36:00.036+03:00

It’s been quite some time since I’ve written here. I apologize. I feel like I’ve been constantly on the go ever since school ended on June 12th. Here’s a (not so) brief recap of what I’ve been doing:

On Tuesday, June 9th I went to Timisoara because Jeri Guthrie-Corn, the current US Charge d’affaires for Romania, came to give a talk on current diplomatic relations between Romania and the US. The basic gist was that Romania is one of the US’s closest allies in Europe. The most recent example of this is that Timisoara was chosen as the location for a refugee transfer center, a temporary holding site for displaced people and victims of political crime from around the world. After her talk, Ms.Guthrie-Corn went out for a coffee with the Peace Corps volunteers and Fulbright scholars from the Timisoara area. Cameron and I were the only Peace Corps volunteers to show up. And, taking pity on us Peace Corps volunteers, she gave us 50 lei for “a sandwich.” We both appreciated her gesture, and gladly accepted. It appears that Ms. Guthrie-Corn will relieved of her duties as acting ambassador when Mark Gitenstein (President Obama’s newly-confirmed appointee) comes to Bucharest on August 20th.

As I mentioned above, the school year officially ended on June 12th with a final awards ceremony. In the last few days of classes my students showered me with gifts. One of my 9th grade classes even threw a surprise party for me! When I walked into the classroom, I found they had decorated the blackboard with balloons and chalk drawings that said "we'll miss you." There was a cake on the teacher's desk, on which they'd written "we won't forget you." I was touched by how much thought they'd put into everything. They even gave me a custom-made t-shirt with each of them represented as South Park characters. Quite cute.

Me, surprised

Cutting the cake

Notice how they decorated the balloon in the upper right!

In the last week of school the 12th graders took part in the traditional ‘serenada,’ in which each of the senior classes sang songs to the teachers. They used well-known tunes but wrote new lyrics in which they alluded to moments from the past four years and made jokes about teachers and classmates. After all the singing was over, the students gave flowers and gifts to their favorite teachers. In fact, it’s quite common for students to give flowers to their teachers throughout the school-year or at any major school function. The following day was the 12th grade ball, which is sort of equivalent to a senior prom in the States. One difference, however, is that the students don’t necessarily go with a date; instead they tend to go as a whole class. Also, all their teachers come and mingle. And furthermore, the party goes on foreveeer. We didn’t even eat dinner until 1am. H’orderves were served at 10, followed by dancing, then more food and then more dancing. There was also the ritual in which the students formed a line and went from teacher to teacher to kiss them and toast with champagne. By the time the school director and mayor gave their speeches and the dessert was put out, it was nearly 3am. In the end, I got home at about 9am, completely exhausted.

Some of the 12 graders singing at the serenada

The week after school ended, I went on a small tour of Transylvania. I stopped in the town of Reghin (famous for the manufacture of string instruments) to visit Alayna, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer before she left Romania. Cherries were in season, so we ate our share. After that I went to the city of Targu Mures (pronounced ‘Tirgoo Mooresh’) to help Mikey (another volunteer) with and English camp in a neighboring village.

After the camp there I headed north to Sighetu Marmatiei (the second part of that name is pronounced ‘Marmatzi-eh’), which is a town in Maramures right on the Ukrainian border. My friend Julie had organized a series of Klezmer workshops throughout Romania, one of which being in Sighet. So, I decided to go check it out. It was basically a weekend of Jewish cultural events that Julie had organized with the help of local community members and some klezmer artists from NYC. I had the opportunity to sit in on a prayer service at the synagogue, which I had never done before. After the service, everyone was invited into the community center for drinks and refreshments. There was dancing and singing, and of course, tuica. It was my first experience with such Jewish-Romanian traditions. In fact, it was probably the first time in years that some of the old-timers there had the opportunity as well. It was great to see everyone participating with such fervor. But, at the same time it was also sad to realize all of this was just a faint glimmer of a past life. Even while the Jewsih community in Sighet is still relatively large by Romanian standards, it’s only a shadow of what it once was. However, I think the local community so eagerly seized onto the whole thing simply because it revived something of a bygone era.

Sighet is the hometown of Elie Wiesel, and while I was there I took a moment to go see his childhood home. After having read Night—the book he wrote about his experience in Nazi concentration camps—it was interesting to see first-hand the places and things he had mentioned.

The Wiesel house

The weekend program also included some musical performances, which unfortunately I had to miss. However, I did have the chance to hang out with the artists during their rehearsals at the hotel. They played many klezmer tunes which were actually written in Romania, but have since been all but forgotten around these parts. Incidentally, at dinner that night we went to a restaurant and heard quite a few traditional folk songs, some of which the musicians from New York said sounded strongly influenced by klezmer. I thought that was pretty fascinating.

The three musicians from NYC, Benjy, Deborah and Jeff rehearsing in the hotel

Since Ukraine is literally just a hop skip and a jump from Sighet, a couple of us decided to cross the Tisa river and spend an afternoon in the first town we found, just so we could say we’d been there. Shaun, a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Ukraine, happened to be one of our party. He spoke Ukrainian quite well, which helped when dealing with the border guards. We passed through passport control and continued on until we reached the village of Slatina, a settlement no more than a kilometer from the border. I remember noticing numerous individuals on the road at the edge of town, stuffing cigarettes down their pants, in their bras, or hiding them somewhere in their car or motorcycle. Apparently smokes are considerably cheaper in Ukraine, so people smuggle them into Romania. As a town, Slatina didn’t seem all that different from any small town or village in Romania. In fact, there were quite a few Romanians, and just about everyone spoke the language. We stopped at a bar to try a beverage called kvass. It’s essentially a mildly-alcoholic drink made from old rye bread and sugar. It was dark and bubbly and wasn’t all that great, a little like drinking stale coca-cola. But hey, at least I gave it a try.

Sharing some kvass with Benjy, Shaun and Julie

I took a very uncomfortable train back to Lugoj from Sighet. Arriving at 6am, after 12 hours and no sleep, I went home and took a nap. At 10am I got up and went to Clubul Copiilor to help with the ceramics camp (the same one that I helped with last year). We had about 35 kids this year. Ole came back to Lugoj for the camp, and brought with him friends from Denmark and Norway, and, of course, lots of clay. My main function this year was to act as translator between the Scandanavians and Romanians, and I taught the kids how to make clay whistles.

After the ceramics camp, I made another trip to the National Archives in Timisoara. You may recall my ill-fated experience there in March. I went back because the documents I was after had been returned from Bucuresti. Thus, I was finally able to access the church registry with Bela Lugosi's birth records. It documented his address as "Nemet Lugos, 6 Szemely" which means Nr. 6 German Lugoj (Lugoj used to be split into two halves, German and Romanian, demarcated by the Timis river). Unfortunately, no street name was specified, which was something I hadn't anticipated. I looked through the registry for other kin, hoping the address would be more specific in another entry. I found record of his sister Vilma's birth in 1878. But alas, the address in her entry wasn't any different. Digging a bit deeper, I also found his father's death records. Curiously enough, his address was entered as "Templom Utca 7 sz." (Nr. 7 Church Street). So, at least there was a street name--the same street I was expecting--but the number was on the opposite side. Perhaps this was the address of the place where he had died, not his home address? Puzzled but still happy that I had managed to track down these records, I asked to take some pictues. Non-flash photography is permitted as long as you pay the 7-lei fee. I was happy to pay the fee, and reached for my wallet. Seeing this, the lay said, "oh no no, you can't pay here; you have to pay at the National Treasury or at the post office." I should have known this would be the case, but for some reason I had forgotten how bureaucratic things can be. I ended up having an argument with the lady for about 20 minutes about how incredibly inconvenient and ludicrous the system is. 'Why can't I just pay you here?', I inquired. In the end I discovered that it wasn't the money that was important, it was the receipt that I'd receive after putting the money in their account. Without that one slip of paper, I couldn't get anything done. I realized there was no working around it, so I gave in. After numerous trips between the archives and the post office, hours of waiting in line and discussions with the Timisoara postal director, I finally got the coveted receipt. Returning with it to the archives, I finally managed I take the pictures I wanted. Phew!! It was quite frustrating to think that I had to jump through so many hoops just so I could take 5 pictures (a task that took no more than minutes in itself). Now that I have copies of the records, I'm going to give them to the Lugoj town hall so they'll have them for their archives. I hope they'll be helpful in the future for putting a plaque on Lugosi's house.

The page in the registry with Bela's entry (at bottom). Interestingly enough, the
church made a note of his name change in 1917 (right page, middle-bottom)

Next I went to Denmark with Martin for the Roskilde music festival, which took place just outside Copenhagen. After being in Romania for the last two years, I was a bit bowled over by Copenhagen. I didn’t expect it, but I was really impacted by little things here and there, like highways, or the prevalence of bicycles, or the fact that trains and buses run on time. Perhaps this was a little preview of the culture shock I might face in returning to the States. But anyhow, Denmark was incredible. I was really impressed with life in Scandinavia--precise, clean and elegant. The festival itself was amazing; I saw so many bands and met heaps of cool people.

I came back to Romania in time for the end of the year “campus” at the kids’ center in Mondial. It was essentially a summer camp; we sang songs, played games (like tug-of-war or water-balloon toss, etc.) and organized arts and crafts activities. It was my last time with the kids, and I’m glad things ended on a good note. The center is run by a group of Italian nuns, and they always invited me to their place for lunch after we finished the camp activities for the day. Needless to say, I ate very well that week.

Then I went to Istanbul with my friends Chris, Eva, and Zach. Having just finished his service, Chris was flying home from Istanbul; it was actually the cheapest flight he could find. So, we all went together to see him off and spend a few last moments together. Since we had all been to the city before, we didn't need to do the typical touristy stuff. Instead, our focus was to spend some quality time with each other, eat some good food and just relax. Highlights from the trip included excellent kebab, a seabass lunch, haggling at the Grand Bazaar, and a scenic boat tour up the Bosphorous (probably the most touristy thing we did). The bubbling of hookahs characterized our trip, but perhaps just as defining was the rattle of rolling dice. At hookah bars throughout Istanbul all the old men spend hours smoking and playing backgammon. A bit curious at seeing this, we decided to try our hands at the game. It quickly became our favorite pastime.

From Istanbul, Eva and I flew to London (turned out to be much cheaper for me to fly back to Romania via London than to fly direct from Istanbul). We stayed in East London with a couchsurfing couple who live in a townhouse with a garden out back. We shared many bottles of good wine, cooked a few great meals and engaged in some wonderful conversations. Eva and I also ate some Indian food at a restaurant on Brick Lane, drank some ginger beer, checked out the National Gallery, explored East London a bit and hung out in Victoria Park. Like in Denmark, I had some moments of shock and awe, especially going to a food market and seeing the sheer variety of goods that were available. I saw vegetables I'd never seen before, tasted cheeses I never knew existed. There were stands with local ciders and beers from all over the world. I ate a fresh blueberry muffin (hadn't had one of those in two years). As I strolled by a little chutney kiosk, I surrendered to temptation and sampled the wares. There were other kiosks with Turkish delight, but I deemed it a little too early in the morning for that. They even had a stand selling ostrich meat! It seemed there was nothing you couldn't find.

After coming back to Romania, I was struck by the realization that my time here is really running out, and perhaps I’ve made too many plans. I had promised to go to Cluj one more time before I leave the country, so I went last week to hang out with the Peace Corps volunteers still remaining there. Then I went to Targoviste (Turgoh-veesh-tay) to help with a training on peer counseling and stress management for group 26, the newest group of volunteers to come to Romania.

As I write this, I’m at Zach’s apartment in Sibiu. We’re preparing to head out tomorrow to help Outward Bound with the Carpathian Adventure Race, a competition in the Fagaras mountains involving hiking, biking and rafting. It starts the 12th and finishes on the 16th. I’m not exactly sure what our role will be, but I have a hunch we'll be manning checkpoints along the trail. After the 16th, I'll have about 10 more days at site in which to say my goodbyes, wrap up loose ends, and pack all my stuff. Then I'll head down to the Peace Corps office in Bucuresti to officially close my service as a volunteer. That may not seem like much when written down, but to be honest, I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the little things I have to take care of before I head home.

So, that brings us pretty much up to date...

Global Conversations

2009-06-03T23:35:00.033+03:00

One of my side-projects this semester has been trying to establish a partnership bewteen Brediceanu (my high school here) and Haddam-Killingworth High School (the school from my hometown in Connecticut).

We got off to a somewhat slow start, but now things seem to be under way. I've got a group of 8 students from the 9th and 10th grades who have been helping to make it all happen. Here's our group:

From left to right: Loli, Denis, Claudia, me, Cristiana, Doris, Lorena, and at the bottom are Cristian and Bogdan

We're collaborating with a group of 9 kids from Haddam-Killingworth's International Culture Club (ICC). Our first formal correspondence was to exchange powerpoint presentations, followed by email discussions between the kids on both sides (using the website www.epals.com).

My kids used their presentations as a means to briefly introduce the Americans to Romania. They decided to split into two teams and do seperate powerpoints-- one team made a presentation on our local region, Banat, and the other made theirs about Maramures. The idea behind doing two presentations was to illustrate regional differences within Romania. The goal for both presentations was to represent the regions in terms of the 5 senses (sight, smell, sound, taste and touch). The kids really got into it and were quite creative in thinking up objects, landmarks, and symbols that are representative of Banat and Maramures, respectively. They were also extremely excited to receive the presentation made by the American kids (which included information about their school schedule, shad fishing, pancakes with syrup, and several other things my kids found interesting or unusual).

So far the exchanges seem to be going well, but the school year is just about over now. I hope that the kids will continue to correspond next year, even after I'm gone. Luckily, Mihaela, one of my English-teaching colleagues has offered to coordinate the effort when school resumes.

Anyway, I thought perhaps you'd like to see the presentations my kids made. Click on the slide shows to start them. The music originally incorporated into the presentations is included below the slides.

Banat- The 5 Senses

Music typical of Banat, performed by Nicoleta Voica:

"Ana Lugojana," a piece composed by Ion Vidu:

Maramures- The 5 Senses

A traditional melody from Maramures:

Coming to a close...

2009-05-31T21:54:00.017+03:00

When I arrived here nearly two years ago, it seemed like 27 months of service would be an eternity. Those 27 months, however, are already nearly over. Time has just flown by.

I'm almost done with my second year of teaching. Things are winding down quickly. There are only two weeks left in the school year (really only one week of real classes). After that, I probably won't see many of my students again. I've been trying to prepare them, as well as my colleagues and friends for my inevitable departure, but I was never good at goodbyes.

While I'm certainly looking forward to going home, at the same time it'll be hard to leave behind the people that have become such a part of my life for the last two years. Knowing the end is near, some of my colleagues have mentioned how much they'll miss me once I'm gone. On one hand, such sentiments are extremely touching, and it's quite validating to know that they want me to stay. However, on the flip side, knowing this doesn't make the idea of leaving any easier. I'm going to miss them just as much.

One of my 10th grade classes honored me last week with a surprise: they all showed up to class. They're rarely all present. They knew it was going to be our last meeting. They're one of the classes that I've had the opportunity to teach both years. At the beginning of last year they were one of my toughest classes. However, after the rough start, they soon became one of my favorites. It seems they've come to enjoy working with me as well. At our last class together they showed their appreciation by giving me a 'Romania' souvenir clock and a Lugoj coffee mug. It warmed my heart that they thought so much as to give me going-away presents. In fact, it confirmed for me that I am actually doing some good stuff here.

Last week I also had the last meeting of my English Club-- a weekly after-school gathering at one of Lugoj's vocational schools. Being a vocational school, the English program is not as strong as at other high schools in town. Moreover, many of the kids come from troubled home situations. Some have to work part time to support their families and don't have much time for studies. Others may even live alone, their parents working abroad. Taking all this into account, I really appreciate the fact that a steady, albeit small group of determined students took time every week to come. Our last meeting was rather touching. I asked the kids to reflect upon our two years together and talk about their most memorable experiences. They came up with some great stuff, remembering things that I'd forgotten, or things that had impacted them in ways I wasn't even aware of. At the end of the meeting I gave each of the kids a personal compliment, identifying one thing about their personality that impressed me. They were clearly touched that I was able to find strengths in each of them (I'm not sure they often hear compliments). As we left, the kids came up to me and each gave me a hug. These are high-schoolers mind you, and many of them are known as 'misfits' or troublemakers. However, it was clear that I'd connected with them somehow. I was moved by their show of affection, and deeply stirred to know that my efforts had had an impact. I think in the end, the club evolved into more than just a place to practice English; it became a sort of safe haven. During our time together, we got to know each other pretty well. The kids taught me some things about what it's like to be a teenager in Romania. But more than that, I think the kids learned some good things about themselves, discovering qualities that perhaps they didn't even know they possessed.

Needless to say, these last months of service have been somewhat bitter-sweet. Some of my fellow-volunteers (and close friends) are already starting to return home. Time seems to be accelerating, and with each passing day I realize I have less and less time to do all the things I want to do before I leave. Additionally, I frequently have moments when I think, 'wow, this is probably the last time I'll have the chance to do this,' or 'I may never see this person again.' My official close of service is 31 August, three months from now. So, until then, I'm going to try to cherish all these 'last moments.'

Clearing Storm

2009-05-31T17:36:00.004+03:00

Looking ESE from the center of Lugoj, next to the Iron Bridge

Wanderin'

2009-05-17T14:47:00.011+03:00

Yesterday the weather was beautiful, and I hadn't got out of town for some time, so I decided to go on a bike ride. I headed out of Lugoj on a dirt road heading West. I had never been down the road before, and curious to find out where it went, I decided to just keep going as long as I had sunlight. I the first village I came to was about 10km from Lugoj. I wasn't sure where I was, but I had a hunch, so I asked two old women sitting along the street outside their home. "Is this Jabar?" Indeed it was.

I'd passed through this village many times with the train, but all I'd ever seen of it was the train station. This time, however, I got to see the village itself. Church steeples towered above the single-story homes; men and women worked their gardens; children rode their bikes along the dirt roads, chasing geese; others gathered around the community water pump; farmers guided the cows home after a day of grazing; old folks sat in the shade of the trees along the road or stuck their heads out the window to gaze at passers-by and take in the whole scene (a form of entertainment pre-dating television). I struck up a short conversation with the two old ladies. They knew from my question that I wasn't from around there. I explained that I was just exploring the area a bit. "Oh, my son does the same thing, riding from here to Lugoj and the other villages," said the younger of the two women with a smile. "Looks like it's going to rain," I said, looking at the darkening sky as thunder echoed in the distance. The older lady, with her thick villager's accent warned me that I wasn't dressed warmly enough, and told me that I shouldn't take the road I had come on to get back to Lugoj; it was too rocky. I'd be better off taking the road through Boldur, she advised, since that one had asphalt. I thanked her for her advice and set on my way. I wasn't quite ready to return home yet, and I was willing to take my chances with the rain.

I set off West down the main road, not knowing where it would take me. Bolts of lightning touched down in the fields on my right. The sky let a few drops fall, but it wasn't much; just enough to cool things off and settle the dust. It seemed like the storm was passing off to the North-East. After riding for a while longer I reached another village. Ohaba-Forgaci read the sign at the entrance. I'd never heard of it before. I found it to be quite a quaint little place. It seemed to be frozen in time. A lot of the villages in the Banat region are modernizing quite quickly. In fact, this is true for villages throughout most of Romania, but things are changing especially fast in this region. Tractors are replacing horses, more and more farmers are using modern machinery and fertilizers, cell-phone coverage is expanding, internet lines are being installed, and old homes are being demolished and replaced with modern constructions. While progress can be a good thing, I'm saddened to see many of these changes taking place. Modernization seems to be coming at the expense of old traditions. However, in the midst of this fury of change, little Ohaba-Forgaci seems to be clinging on to some of the old ways. The thing that struck me the most was that the homes there were very old, many were prime examples of the architecture that was once typical in the Banat in the 18th and 19th centuries. Seeing as such homes are quickly becoming extinct, I decided to take a few pictures:

From Bike Ride to Ohaba-Forgaci

A house in traditional Banat style, shaped like a "C" with a little courtyard on the inside

There's typically a mini-arcade along the perimeter of the coutyard, as you can see here

Western influences are evident in the architecture throughout the region

The rounded, arched gables (as seen here on the two houses to the left) are another detail typical in the Banat

Small Town Politics

2009-05-15T21:59:00.007+03:00

Four teachers at Brediceanu are retiring at the end of this school year, and they hosted a farewell party this afternoon in the school canteen. I happened to arrive a little late, went over to the 'men's table' and said hello to all the fellas. I went right down the line, greeting Mr. Muresan, Mr. Kina, Mr. Bancu and several other teachers.

The mayor was also there, so of course I wanted to make a point to pay my respects. Extending my hand to him I smiled and said, "Domnul primar! Ce mai faceti?" He looked up at me with a grim expression and refused to extend his hand to me. Instead, he shook his finger, saying "N-am ce discuta cu tine." I was not expecting this in the least, and was shocked that he didn't want to talk to me at all. I didn't understand what the issue was, but it was clear he wasn't in any disposition to explain. So, confused and hurt, I took back my hand and moved down a couple chairs to sit with Mr. Bancu, who offered me some wine and told a joke or two.

While I was sitting with Mr. Bancu, the mayor (who was only 4-5 feet away, mind you) went on talking with his cronies. I could hear him loudly repeating the word nesimtit (which basically means 'ill-mannered') and I knew it was in reference to me. It was quite humiliating, but I did my best to smile and ignore it.

Later on I discovered what this mess was all about. Another teacher who had apparently witnessed my exchange with the mayor explained to me that he was very upset about the grade I had given his granddaughter. She's one of my 6th graders. I had given her a 9 last semester because that's what she happened to deserve. Evidently, however, it didn't matter what she actually deserved. It's just expected that someone with important connections should get a 10.

I'm sorry that the Mayor took such offense; I had never intended to hurt anyone. The thing is, I give grades according to merit, not political connections. This may not be the way things are normally done around here, but it's simply not something I'm willing to compromise.

Cleaning the banks of the Timis

2009-05-08T23:59:00.002+03:00

From River Clean-up 08-05-09

It's long been a goal of mine to expose my students to volunteer work. Volunteerism isn't something they ordinarily have opportunities for. When I was a student, I did a lot of volunteering, and found it highly rewarding. In fact, if it weren't for my volunteer experiences during high school, I probably wouldn't be in the Peace Corps now.

I've volunteered on a few different occasions at a local nursing home with some of my ninth-grade students. At first they seemed somewhat reluctant to get involved. But, on our most recent visit we helped to tidy up their yard, and the kids seemed to really enjoy the experience. They put in some hard work, were able to see some tangible results, and could tell their help was appreciated.

Today was another volunteer opportunity for some of my students. I'd been talking with the guys at Clubul Concordia (the local hiking/outdoors club) about organizing a river clean-up, and today it finally happened. We made it a joint venture between Clubul Concordia and Brediceanu (the high school where I teach). Students interested in participating gathered in front of the school after classes were dismissed. I was surprised how many actually showed up; I had done my best to promote the clean-up among my students, but I wasn't convinced many of them would come. In any case, I was pleasantly surprised. It was good to see that so many of them were genuinely willing to help.

We took the afternoon to scour the river banks from one end of town to the other, and managed to collect a fair ammount of trash. I think the kids enjoyed the experience, and were glad to do something good for the town. I took a few pictures, which can be found HERE.

Piata, part 2

2009-04-21T22:49:00.017+03:00

The Piata is a magical place. It's so full of life. My recent post on the subject made me realize I've never taken any pictures there. So, two Fridays ago I decided to go with my camera.

Click on the slideshow to view the photo album:

It was busy! Not only was it a Friday--which are usually busy--it was Good Friday, so people were stocking up for the Catholic Easter. I say 'Catholic Easter' because here people make the distinction between the Catholic/Protestant Easter and the Orthodox Easter, which fall on different dates.

One of the things I like about Lugoj is how multicultural it is, and this is certainly reflected in the piata atmosphere. Walking past the mounds of fruits and vegetables one can hear people speaking in Romanian, Hungarian, Romani, German and even Italian from time to time. As you enter the vicinity, you can hear musica populara (Romanian folk music) blaring from the windows of nearby shops. As you make your way to the far end, the characteristic sounds of manele become more prominent (manele, by the way, is a sort of Turkish-influenced pop). The smells of fresh produce, grilled meats and fried dough waft through the air. The vendors aggresively peddle their wares, calling wandering shoppers to come look at their offerings. "Poftiti, Poftiti," they say. The Rroma women drift about selling wooden spoons.

You can find nearly anything at the piata. There's a barbeque where you can get a beer and some ribs. There are also gogosi (doughnuts) and langosi, a sort of fried dough that comes with cheese or jam. The vendors sell a variety of clothes, fruits, vegetables, meats, dairy, flowers, spices, cleaning products, pots, brooms. If they don't have what you want today, they might have it tomorrow (along with the arrival of other new or unexpected treasures). When corn is in season, they have corn. When pumkins are in season, they have pumpkins. When tomatoes are in season, there are mounds of tomatoes. A lady once tried to sell me bulbs of a mystical tulip from Jordan (so she told me, anyway). It's a place where the arts of selling, conversing and negotiating meld together to form a one-of-a-kind interactive experience. It's also a place full of surprising possibilities. There was a time when I had a surplus of Serbian money that I couldn't seem to exchange anywhere. However, just when it seemed like I would be stuck with the Dinara forever, I happened upon an unassuming little man at the piata who gladly exchanged them into Euros. He did what even the banks wouldn't do!

With my camera hanging around my neck, I got more attention during this visit to the piata than usual. When I went to the dairy section trying the cheeses, I asked to take pictures of a couple of the vendors. Many were so flattered that I took their picture, that they offered me samples of their cheeses. Other vendors flatly refused my photo requests. The people selling meat seemed more opposed than others for some reason. I asked one of the Rroma ladies selling spoons if I could take her picture, and she said I'd have to buy one of her spoons first (so instead I snuck a shot of her while she wasn't looking).

I came across a woman selling a green herb I'd never seen before, so I stopped to ask her about it. She responded in garbled speech I couldn't quite understand (no teeth). She said the name and explained something about it's uses. I caught the word 'ciorba' (chorba, or sour soup). "So, it's used in ciorba?' I asked. She just kept on speaking about something, barely intelligible. The younger lady at the next stand said the woman didn't hear so well. So, I asked the younger lady to repeat what it was called. "Macris," she said (muh-crish, also known as Sorrel in English). I turned back to the old lady and asked if I could take a picture of her. She didn't seem to understand, so I repeated myself. Still nothing. Next I mimed the motion of taking a picture and pointed to my camera. She finally seemed to understand and smiled. Once I took to the picture, she offered me a handful of the herb. "You simply must take some," I thought she sputtered toothlessly. I politely declined, saying I wasn't planning to make ciorba any time soon, and had no other use for the stuff. However, she probably didn't hear me and proceeded to put a handful of the leaves into a bag. I again tried to stop her, but she stubbornly went on. Finally, I decided it wasn't really worth fighting. Handing me the bag, I asked her how much she wanted. She said no payment was necessary. However, for the amount she had given me, it felt wrong just walking away. So I pulled out a few lei and gave them to her. She argued that I'd given too much. I told her not to worry about it. However, she obviously wouldn't agree and snatched the bag back, stuffing in more macris. I again objected; half a kilo was already quite enough. At this point she finally got the hint, and realizing there was no way she could convince me to take more of the herb, she instead threw in a bundle of radishes to settle the score.

Revolution?

2009-04-08T16:43:00.010+03:00

Nationalist riots have broken out in Chisinau, the capital of the Republic of Moldova (Romania's neighbor to the East). At one time part of Romania, Moldova's population is ethnically Romanian. These protests are in response to recent elections, which opponents say were neither free nor fair. Moldova is the only European country with a communist president. At the moment, the border between Romania and Moldova is essentially closed, Chisinau has expelled the Romanian ambassador and it's hard to say what will hapen next. I'm not sure how much coverage this is getting in the States, so I figured I'd post some information here. Check out the links below:

Anti-Communist Protests in Moldova--The New York Times

Moldovan ruling communists clamp down on protests--Reuters

Piata

2009-04-02T23:38:00.004+03:00

Life here is cyclical, and so is the world of the piata. The word piata (pee-atza) has become so familiar to me that I often use it as if it were an English word. It actually means 'market.' Here I'm referring specifically to the local farmer's market.

Spring has definitely arrived, and things at the market are coming back to life after the winter dearth. It's so refreshing to see fresh produce making a comeback! To be honest, I was getting sick of onions, parsnips, potatoes and cabbage-- and pickled varieties thereof. In fact, in the winter you can find just about everything in pickled form, even watermelon (which is quite addictive if you ask me). Today I happened by the piata to see what was going on. The weather was beautiful and warm. For a Thursday, things were pretty bustling. The scene would be even more popping on the big market days, Tuesdays and Fridays, when villagers from the surrounding area come to sell their wares.

The first time I ever went shopping at the piata, I went with my colleague from school, Mihaela. She taught me a strategy that I still use today. She said, 'start browsing from the back and work your way to the front.' She told me to do so because producers pay more to rent the tables at the front, and thus jack up their prices accordingly. Therefore, you can often find the best deals at the back tables. Today I found something quite exciting: spinach!! Apparently it just came into season. I bought a whole kilogram without any clue what I'd use it for.

One thing I've learned about shopping in Lugoj is that you need to take opportunities when they come. What's here one week might not be next week (whether you're talking about the supermarket or piata). For example, one of my favorite things about summer are the strawberries. However, the problem is that they come and go in the blink of an eye. They're probably only at the market for a week or so, but when they are, it's glorious.

A weekend in Medias

2009-04-01T18:48:00.009+03:00

One of the many things we uncovered, an old Socialist Romanian flag

I spent the past weekend in Medias helping with the cleanup of a synagogue that has been slated for restoration. Jewish culture in Romania, though thriving in the early 20th century, was virtually eradicated in the latter half of the century. What remains are forgotten skeletons such as this Synagogue in Medias, unused for decades, and perhaps a handful of Jews, if any remain at all.

At one point while we were working in the synagogue, an adolescent boy walked in off the streets, noticing that the door--which is usually locked--was open. He looked around, admiring everything he saw with a sort of distant bewilderment. His face that told you he wasn't really sure what to make of the unfamiliar surroundings. "Is this some kind of church?" he asked, adding, "it must be very old."

In fact Medias's synagogue was built in 1896, which isn't so long ago in the grand scheme of things. However, that young man's ignorance/curiosity illustrates just how forgotten and marginalized Romanian-Jewish history has become. This particular synagogue has been vacant since sometime in the 1970's, perhaps even earlier. Every surface on the interior was covered in thick layers of black dust, and the floors were strewn with old prayer books, photographs and documents, hastily stowed and obviously neglected for ages. In a way, it was like time had frozen there, which was eerie, not to mention sad. It was our job to clean the place up a bit, to sort through everything and salvage what we could.

Check out the photos below. You can click on the slideshow to access the photo album.

They Told Me There'd Be Days Like These

2009-03-24T22:31:00.015+02:00

No one ever said it'd be easy to be a Peace Corps volunteer.

Over the last few days I've been revisiting some old questions. Like, "am I an effective volunteer?" or "what sort of impact am I having?" The answer to both of these questions is an unequivocal "I don't know." I think I've been frustrated with the quality of my service lately because it doesn't seem like I'm making any sort of progress. Teaching at school isn't really all that bad, but neither is it extremely great. The kids at Mondial have some good days, but the bad days are just as plentiful. Moreover, many projects I've started seem to be failing or going nowhere. On the other hand, I realize it's hard to gauge one's impact without the benefit of hindsight. Even still, sometimes curiosity gets the best of you and you just have to ask, "have I changed anything?" It's rather frustrating when you look for results and can't find any. I suppose I tend to look for evidence of something big, something tangible, when in reality the fruits of my labor are probably more indistinct.

In addition, it seems I've become more cycnical lately. I remember the pessimism of some of the volunteers I met when I first came to Romania in May 2007. They'd been in country for nealry 2 years, and so they were on their way out. Some of them apparently had a pretty difficult experience, and their depiction of life as a PCV in Romania was decidedly less than flowery. Witnessing their pessimism was somewhat shocking for a bright-eyed, gung-ho newbie like myself, and I promised myself that I'd never become like them. I still refuse to be like them. I mean, there are many things about my experiences up to now that I cherish. However, it certainly hasn't been all hunky-dorey and I can't seem to help but complain a little. In fact, feel like my mood has been more negative than usual the past few weeks. A lot of things that usually wouldn't bother me have been getting on my nerves. I seem to be less tolerant of Romanian culture, less patient. For example, I find myself asking things like "why can't this sidewalk be a flat, paved surface?" or "why are the roads full of holes?" or "why don't people put their trash in the trash can?" or "why is it every that construction project around here takes several years to complete?" or "why won't the waitress look at me when she walks by?" or "what do you mean the documents aren't available?! In the States such information would be public."

I think that last question touches upon part of my problem: I've fallen into the trap of comparing aspects of Romanian society with what I'm accustomed to in the States. Often the comparisons are unfair. Usually I'd write off my daily annoyances as the result of cultural differences. I'd say, "just accept it, this is how things are in Romania." However these sort of differences have been getting to me more and more lately. Perhaps it's that I want to see things change, and they aren't (at least not according to my expectations). Or perhaps it's that I've been here for nearly 2 years now, and I miss being home-- I can see the finish line approaching, and I can't help but envision being back in a land where everything is as it should be. These kind of thoughts are horribly ethnocentric of me, and I hate to admit that they've crossed my mind at some point or another. I shouldn't be thinking in such terms. But, I believe the main contributing factor behind my current cynicism is that my frustrations about being a good volunteer are spilling over into my daily life, making me more sensitive to these little, admittedly insignificant bothers. It just seems that not much is going my way at the moment. Then again, I've felt this way before; it doesn't last forever. During our pre-service training they warned us that Peace Corps service can be like a roller coaster. There are good periods, and bad. Moreover, you fortunes can change suddenly, inexplicably and without warning. One week may be terrible, and the next may be awesome. It's even happened that I've experienced both extremes all within the space of one day. It just happens.

Like I mentioned above, the finish line is approaching. I'll be leaving Romania this summer. I've recently started prepping people for my departure, which has made me begin to realize just how hard it will be to leave. While I certainly miss my family and friends back in the States, this place has become like a second home for me. Life here is now familiar. I've grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of Lugoj. I've made many friends. My apartment is comfortable. And, what is more, I have a land-lady that does my laundry for me (Heaven forbid I should have to do my own laundry when I return to the States!). More than anything, the thought that I'll be leaving reminds me that I'm running out of time to do everything I want to do.

Added to my feelings of ineffectiveness, melancholy about leaving, and grief over the lingering gloomy weather is one more thing: anxiety about what I'll do after Peace Corps. I honestly have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, and every time someone asks me about it I feel even more pathetic. I had hoped by now I'd have some clear plan for my life, but things are still as murky as they were at the start. However, I'm holding out hope that something will turn up. Something always does.

Notwithstanding my mixed feelings at this point, I can say joining the Peace Corps was a good choice. I'd do it all over again. And, while my time here has had its ups and downs, I'd say things have been more positive overall. Furthermore, I suppose it's something of an accomplishment that I've made it this far. Heck, I remember wondering at the outset how I was going to survive 2 years without a microwave! I'm glad to say I am indeed surviving, and that counts for something, right? We'll see what the last few months have in store...

What's your secret? Polident?

2009-03-08T21:51:00.017+02:00

On Thursdays after my normal classes at school I go to the Kid's Club to give English lessons to the young'uns (3rd to 4th graders). They're fun, but can be quite tiring. After a couple hours with them, I usually hang out with the kids in Tibi's art studio, which is adjacent to my English room. Filip, a kindergartener, is usually there when I show up. Filip's inquisitive little eyes are framed by Steve Urkel-esque glasses, and his wispy blond hair sprouts in messy tufts.

During one particular encounter, few weeks ago, Filip looked up at me through his thick glasses and asked in his meek little voice, "Domnul, aveti proteza?" (Mister, do you have dentures?). At first I was sort of shocked by his audacity. But then again, when I was his age, I had the same chutzpah with strangers (after all, it was me who, perched on my mother's lap while riding a train, had accused the woman sitting next to us of being "fat. "I then proceeded to play with her arm while extoling her flabbiness. She was indeed a large lady. I was just calling 'em like I saw 'em). So I knew Filip was asking out of pure curiosity. Plus I realized that dental care in Romania is not necessarily the priority it is in other, more affluent countries; the sight of missing teeth (or perhaps gold teeth) is much more common around here than seeing someone who has benefited from braces. So, I responded to Filip, more amuzed than offended, "Nu! is naturali," flicking them with my finger.

Tibi, who had overheard the whole exchange, said, "oh that reminds me of a joke!" (he always has a joke for the moment). He actually ended up telling two or three jokes on the subject of dentures. I only managed to remember one. I figured I'd write it here since I actually managed to remember it, and I've been getting some decent mileage out of it lately. So here you go:

An old woman needs a new pair of dentures, so she goes to see the dentist and asks how much they'd cost. The dentist informs her they'd be anywhere between 300-500 euros. Discouraged by the price, the lady goes home. She happens to look in the newspaper and finds an advertisement for 'slightly used' dentures. Hoping to find something more within her price range, she goes to the address listed in the ad. When she gets there a man shows her to a giant table covered in all sorts of dentures. She takes a couple of hours to go through the whole collection, finally selecting 2-3 possible pairs. However, none of them is a perfect fit. The man assures her that if she can't find anything right now, she should come back next week when he'll have more. So, the lady comes back the following week, and sure enough, he has some new additions. Once again, she scours the collection--trying them out, looking in the mirror, etc. Finally she finds a pair that seems just about right; they need only minor modification. She asks the man if he can make the necessary adjustments, and he responds, "lady, I don't make any modifications. I just get what I can find at the graveyard."

Bada-bing. That's today's denture-related joke. Now excuse me while I go floss.

A Visit to the Archives

2009-03-05T22:21:00.012+02:00

It was one of those days that started off with a bad omen. Instead of getting on the train to Timisoara, I boarded the train heading to Caransebes, which is in the complete opposite direction. This is a mistake I never ever make. But then again, given how much I travel by train these days, I suppose it was bound to happen at least once.

The train I intended to take was due to leave Lugoj at 8:47am from line 2. Or so the arrivals/departures board indicated. So, when a train pulled into the station on line 2, I climbed on straighaway, without thinking much about it. For some reason I hadn't noticed that the train had come from the wrong direction (which meant it'd also be leaving in the wrong direction). Moreover, if I had only checked the sign on the side of the wagon as I climbed on, I would have noticed it wasn't the right train. However, I didn't. In any case, everything seemed in order-- the train had arrived on line 2 about when I was expecting it to and it even pulled away at exactly 8:47. It was only when the controller came to check my ticket that I discovered what was wrong. He looked at my ticket with a puzzled expression, and told me I must have made a mistake. This train was going to Caransebes, not Timisoara. I was surprised, but now that he mentioned it, I suddenly noticed that the landscape outside looked a bit different than what I remembered from previous trips to Timisoara. I asked him how this could have happened. After all, the train had left at the correct time and from the correct track. He explained that the train I wanted had been switched to line 3. I argued that the sign at the station displaying departures didn't indicate any such thing. His only response was "greseala, eroare" (mistake, error). That wasn't exactly the comforting response I was looking for.

I sat for a moment, wondering what to do. Suddenly I jumped up from my seat and ran after the controller, who had passed on to the next compartment. I asked him where I should get off in order to catch a train back to Timisoara. He informed me that there was a train from Caransebes at 12:00, which would get into Timisoara at 2pm. Far too late. At this point I was about 15 minutes outside of Lugoj. Glancing out the window, I noticed that the main road back to Timisoara, E70, ran parallel to the train tracks. So, I decided I'd jump off at the next stop and try my luck with hitching. I knew it'd have to get me into Timisoara sooner than 2.

So I gathered my things, and got off at the village of Gavojdia. I crossed the tracks and walked to the road. There was a little old lady there, apparently heading in the same direction as me. As it turned out, she was trying to get to Lugoj. I explained to her what had happened to me and she said the same thing happened to her on a few ocassions. We comisserated for a bit whilst flagging down vehicles. It wasn't long before a car pulled over, and it just so happened the driver was going all the way to Timisoara. So things worked out in the end.

My purpose in going to Timisoara was to pay a visit to the State Archives. I was hoping to locate some official records that I could use to definitively prove Bela Lugosi's place of residence. My efforts turned out to be somewhat ill-fated, similar to my affair with the train earlier that morning.

I suppose I should explain the recent developments regarding 'Project Lugosi' that brought about this trip to the archives. After the newspaper article that was published in February, there seems to be more public discussion of the project. A good number of people have approached me on the subject saying they actually learned something from reading the article. Apparently there has been further reportage on the subject, but it was done without my knowledge. Supposedly the local TV station did a piece, and the newspaper published another article. I haven't had the chance to see either of them yet; the only reason I know they exist is because a few folks have said they saw something connected to Bela Lugosi in the news. However, when I ask them to give further details, they can't seem to remember any. Alas. I suppose I'll just stop by the town library and peruse their old newspaper collections.

Rumor has it that the latest article makes mention of a memorial plaque that was made a few years back, but was never mounted on Lugosi's home. Apparently the previous mayor had commisioned the plaque and tried to put it on the house, but his efforts were quashed by the stubborn refusals of the property owner. Upon hitting this dead end, the plaque was supposedly stowed in a dark cellar somewhere and forgotten. In fact, it turns out that this rumor is pretty much true. I confirmed it with one of my contacts at the town hall who said a plaque is indeed in existence, just sitting around collecting dust. He even invited me to come to the town hall sometime to see it. He also confirmed that the current owner of the house is a very difficult man, and added that before we can even think about trying once again to convince him, we need to procure the proper documents to prove his house is what we claim it to be.

Later that day I talked to Mr. Bloch (the fellow who's been helping me with this project from the very beginning) about tracking down some official town records. He said that this would be difficult because many records were lost in a townhall fire in the early 20th century. Even still, he was able to provide me with a rather useful starting point, a detailed article about Bela Lugosi's early years. The article, "Dracula war ein Lugoscher" (written in German, as the title might imply), was published in 1993. While I can't read or speak German, it didn't much much matter. The important thing was that I was able to decipher the bibliography at the end of the article, which listed the primary sources the author used in writing the piece. One of the sources listed was the archives of the Catholic Church in Lugoj. Another source was the shool archives of Coriolan Brediceanu Lyceum, the very high school where I'm teaching.

The next logical step, of course, was to seek out these sources. I first went to the church and asked the pastor if I could look at the registries. He told me, much to my disappointment, that any records dating before 1948 had been moved to the state archives in Timisoara. My next stop was the Coriolan Brediceanu school library. I asked the librarian to see the archives from the late 19th century. But, just like the pastor, she told me those documents had been moved to the state archives. So, it became evident that I'd have to visit Timisoara since all the documents of interest to me seemed to have been consolidated there.

My next question was, 'how does one get access to the archives?' Based on previous experiences with official government institutions in Romania, I imagined the state archives to be something like the warehouse in the final scene of Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark-- an inaccessible, chaotic jumble of abandoned artifacts. Anyway, I knew I needed an 'in,' so I paid a visit to the curator of the Lugoj history museum, Dr. Wallner. I wasn't sure how 'public' the archives were, so I asked her if there was anything special I needed to do in order to be granted access. Having lived in Romania this long, I've realize you can't always expect things to happen without the proper documentation. And not only is the paperwork itself important, but it's often even more important that everything be signed and stamped in triplicate. I figured the state archives would require much the same. However, when I mentioned it to Dr. Wallner, she simply said, "oh no problem, I'm colleagues with the director of the archives. I can give him a call and let him know you're coming." So, she did just that, and all was taken care of. As is often the case, it's who you know that makes the difference.

So, I arrived at the archives this past Wednesday, after being dropped off by the lady who had given me a ride all the way from Gavojdia. She was a little peeved that I wanted to pay her 9 lei for the trip, and doggedly demanded 13, which I begrudgingly gave her. Entering through the main entrance of the state archives building, I was encountered with a rather large and gruff looking security guard. I told him I wanted to speak with Mr. Rus, the director. He looked at me mistrustingly and asked if I knew Mr. Rus. I replied that in fact I didn't, but I had been sent on the part of Dr. Wallner from Lugoj. He made a phone call, and apparently everything checked out, because I was let inside. I was shoed to the 'study room' where I was greeted by a rather attractive young lady (this was already turning out to be different than I had expected...) She sat me down at the table, and placed a stack of papers in front of me. Ahhh, paperwork, I knew it'd have to enter into the equation somehow. The bulk of the papers were forms I had to complete in order to obtain a reserach license, others were waivers and agreements. I read through them all, filled in the blanks and signed where neccessary. 'Glad to have the paperwork over with,' I thought. But, the formalities weren't quite over. The girl came back with a book of the archive's rules, regulations and procedures, which she plopped down on the table in front of me. Most of it was common sense, i.e. don't steal, deface or burn documents; don't take pictures without permission or without paying the fee; no eating, disruptive conversations, or violent behavior; and of course no dancing.

I requested see the church records for 1882. However, the girl informed me that the registry had been sent to Bucuresti for micro-filming. I asked when it'd be back, and she said she really didn't know. This was just the answer I expected. Rather bummed, I moved on to the next thing on my list, school documents. I requested records of his first grade class (1893-4), second grade (1894-5) and third grade (1895-6). For each I had to fill out a request form, which I gave to the girl so that she could go off to the archives to search for the materials I'd asked for. When she came back, she had three booklets, one for each of the school years I'd requested. The books had the names of all the students in the class, and their basic academic information (essentially giant grade books). The funny thing was that these books looked frightenly familiar--Romanian schools still use the same archaic system for recording marks. Other than the fact that everything in these books was written in Hungarian, I felt like I was looking over one of the class catalogues currently being used at our school.

Unfortunately, none of the class records listed a home address, so they didn't turn out to be the sources I was hoping for. But, even if they didn't mention an address, they did list his birthdate, religion, county of residence and father's name, so it seems like they covered every other tangential, mildly-relevant detail. The church registry surely would have recorded an address. And, as much as I'd rather not, I may have to take a trip to Bucuresti to see if I can find the regristry and take a picture of the lisitng for his baptism.

Even while the class records may not have been the source I would have liked, they did offer some interesting insights. For example, it seems that Bela's father died sometime between 1894 and 1895, while the boy was in second grade. I inferred this because a cross appears next to his father's name in the catalogue from those years, but doesn't appear in 1893-4, nor do any other the other student's fathers have a similar cross next to their names. Another thing is that it seems Bela quit school halfway through the 3rd grade, since he lacks any marks for the second semester of 1896 (he would have been 14. I guess they started school later back then). Perhaps it was his father's untimely death that influenced Bela's decision to leave school.

I certainly wasn't the first to look through these records to find out more about the famed actor's past. I know this because inside the front cover of each of the three books I accessed was a paper where previous researchers had signed. Before me, the most recent person to access the same records was a certain Petrina Calagalic in June of 2006. According to her notes, her purpose was "Documentary" and under observations she wrote "Bela Lugosi."

So, my first trip to the state archives may not have been a complete success, but I learned some things, and now I have a two year certification to access the archives! Not quite as cool as a membership at Barnes and Noble, but I'll take it.

The Keeper of the Tome

2009-02-21T22:52:00.009+02:00

The school library here in town holds many treasures. One of the most interesting items is a giant book of German, French and Italian maps from the early 18th century. Whenever I visit, the librarian is always very happy pull it off the shelves for me. The thing is so huge that whenever she carries it in her arms her petite frame is almost entirely eclipsed. It's like watching a giant walking book. The thing is also quite hefty, as you might imagine. There must be over 250 maps in the collection. Most are of Europe, but there are also a few world maps, which include the Americas (and the early colonies). It's pretty cool to see how people saw the world back then. It's also pretty cool to see how they made maps back then; the attention to detail is pretty impressive (even if they weren't perfectly accurate) and the decorative ink patterns along the borders are equally stunning.

Here you can see Lugoj (Lugosch), located on the Timis River. To the West of Lugoj is 'Koschtil,' today called Costei; it's the first village outside of Lugoj on the way to Timisoara. To the East is 'Kritschava,' today the village of Criciova.

Thanks to Chris for the photos

Frustrations of Late

2009-02-18T15:22:00.013+02:00

I recently bought a cardigan. It makes me feel a bit like Mister Rogers. Charming, I know. When I'm finished with school for the day, I come home, change my shoes, throw on my navy-blue cardigan and I'm ready for a jaunty conversation with a postal worker, or perhaps a tour of a crayon factory.

But, this Tuesday, even while I was wearing my cardigan, was not much of a Mister Rogers sort of day.

As I usually do on Tuesdays, I went to the after-school center for kids from the Mondial neighborhood. It was snowed all day and was still snowing as I made my way, which made the 30-minute trek a little more onerous than usual. I mean, it wouldn't be so bothersome if the sidewalks were shoveled (where there are sidewalks) and if the blowing snow didn't attack my face from all angles. The cold air and stinging snow were in stark contrast to the week before, when it had been so warm and sunny that I rode my bike out to Mondial. I even managed a quick trip into the neighboring village of Herendesti, which is just beyond the center (taking the bike to Mondial saves so much time that I had some time to kill).

Last week I told the kids that I was going to give them a graded quiz the following Tuesday. I had decided to do so because something had to change; I had to try something different. We'd been working on the Alphabet for a couple months, and many of them still couldn't get past 'D.' We didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I needed to hold them accountable, and I thought waving grades over their head would do the trick.

So, I decided to start fresh, with a lesson titled, "How are You?" Basically, the idea was for them to practice asking and responding to the question 'how are you?' I gave them a few possible responses, including words like good, tired, hungry, upset. I tried to make it extremely clear to them by translating each term directly from Romanian. I even made sure they'd know how to prnounce the words by using a sort of Romlish pronounciation key. For example I wrote 'gud' in parentheses next to 'good' because their first instinct is to pronounce letters as they would in Romanian. As I said, they still haven't mastered the English alphabet. So, according to this model, tired would be 'taierd,' hungry would be 'hăngri' and upset would be 'ăpset.' It's funny, through teaching English to non-native speakers I've discovered just how crazy the English rules of pronounciation are. Or should I say it's the absence of rules that's crazy...

I told the kids to study the five words we had gone over so they'd be ready for the quiz. I thought I had prepared them well. I thought the quiz was going to be easy for them. But no. I gave them their test, and the majorty of them did horribly. Out of 12 kids, 8 got a grade of 5/10 or lower. What is more, many of the kids seemed happy to walk away with a grade of 3, 4 or 5. I admonished them, explaining that they'd actually not done well at all. I strongly urged them to be more diligent about studying. All I'd get in response would be timid sideways glances and half-hearted avowals.

While talking to Lore, one of the 4th graders, I discovered something that may explain why most of the kids haven't been studying. I pointed to some notes she had in her notebook and asked her, "why don't you study this at home?" She explained that the notebooks they use belong to the center and they can't take them home. Oh. I hadn't expected this to be the case.

Afterwards I approached Sister Cristina, the main nun in charge of running of the center. I explained to her my concerns about the kids being able to study at home. I'd done my best to make it easy for them to do so, but if they didn't have access to their notes outside of the center, what good would it be? If the kids wouldn't be able to take their notebooks home, I suggested that perhaps we could make little study sheets for them to take home. Sora gave me an unenthusiastic response, "even if we give them a sheet of paper to take home, what makes you think they'll use it to study? It's too easy to 'forget.'" Maybe her response was fairly realistic, but I couldn't help thinking, "well, we should at least try it."

When I first started going to the center, I wasn't really sure what I was getting myself into. However, I think I'm starting to realize what I'm up against. I asked Sora how the kids came to the center. She told me that she basically goes door to door, canvasing the neighborhood. By explaining why it'd be beneficial for parents to send their kids to the center, she hopes to spark some interest. I've seen the neighborhood, the living conditions are quite paltry. Sora told me she looks for the most 'desperate' cases. What happens at the center is one thing, but I can only imagine what home life is like for most of these kids. I don't suppose there's much continuity between the two spheres. In fact Sora told me that often parents will send their kids, but offer no further support or encouragement.

I suspect the reasons these kids lack academic motivation are complicated. First of all, they've probably been tossed aside by the system for as long as they've been alive. I know that many of them attend marginalized schools and their teachers aren't the most motivated. From what I understand, their English lessons essentially consist of the teacher writing words on the board that they copy into their notebooks. Not much more than that. If rote memorization is all they've ever known, I can see how my methods might seem strange. Originally I thought the kids would immediately latch onto my style of teaching, but that hasn't happened. I just wonder if what I'm trying to do confounds them, being unlike anything they're used to.

I've decided to try the same quiz again next week, just to see if there's any improvement. I believe, however, that a total reevaluation of my methods is in order. Obviously what I'm doing right now isn't quite working. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what I can do to engage them. This is probably the biggest challenge I've faced so far as a PCV.

Washing with snow?

2009-02-17T22:33:00.007+02:00

I'd like to share something that I learned today, an idiomatic expression.

So, we've recently gotten more snow than I have ever seen in Lugoj, that is to say about 6 to 8 inches. It's been snowing the last few days pretty much non-stop, which, compared to last year, has been a virtual blizzard. And with all this snow, the kids have been understandably giddy. So have been some of the teachers (the ones who don't have to drive, I suppose). Walking to school has suddenly become quite perilous, not only because the ground is slippery and the snow is constantly flying in your face (regardless of which direction you're heading), but also because snowballs are darting in every direction, and it doesn't much matter who you are; if you get caught in their crossfire, you stand a very good chance of being hit.

Heading to school this morning, I noticed some children in a snowball fight. Luckily they were too busy targeting each other to notice me. One of the kids got in a good shot, whacking the back of another's head. The victim spun around in a fury, yelling "arghhh! te spăl eu!" This would litterally translate as "I'm going to wash you." "Huh?" I thought as I stared at them for a moment. Later, I figured out he essentially meant, "I'm gonna get you back!" However, at that moment, I was mildly confused to hear such an expression in that context. In any case, I didn't think too hard about it and continued on my way.

I had essentially forgotten the whole episode until I was suddenly reminded of it at school later in the day. It was Sima--the rascally mathematics teacher who always wears expensive suits--that reminded me. During one of the class breaks he had run outside to pick up some snow, and snuck back into the building with a few snowballs. Practically without warning, he pelted some of students who were close to him in the hallway. I quickly jumped for cover behind a movable billboard on which the results of a recent mathematics contest had been posted. The ambush ended when Sima ran out of snowballs. Deeming it safe, I came out of hiding. When Sima saw me, he said, "Oh Mike! Had you been here just a little earlier, I would have washed you." I could have guessed it, and I told him there was good reason I didn't want him to see me. What immediately struck me was that he had used the same turn of phrase as the children I'd seen on the sidewalk--his reference to 'washing' jumped right out at me. "What a funny way to refer to throwing a snowball," I thought. But, as far as I can gather from these two snow-throwing experiences, this is the standard way to describe the act of hurling a snowball at someone.

Boiling Oil!

2009-01-26T22:38:00.010+02:00

It's about 10:30 on Sunday morning, and I receive another of those phone calls from Tibi:

"Hey Mike, wanna go swimming today?"
"Tibi, it's January."
"Yeah, I know, don't worry. We're going to a thermal bath. It's all indoors and very warm."
I paused for a moment, thinking... "Aw heck, ok. I got nothing better to do. Let's go."
"Alright, we'll come to pick you up. Be ready in half an hour."

Half an hour, but of course.

I rushed to finish my bowl of muesli and quickly grabbed a towel, bathing suit and flip-flops. Tibi called when he was downstairs waiting, so I dashed down to meet him. We got in the car and drove off to pick up Simona, Tibi's girlfriend (and my boss at the Kid's Club). Simona stuffed the trunk with drinks and food for the day, including a whole roasted chicken. One thing I've learned about interactions with Romanians (it doesn't really matter what sort) is that you never have to worry about going hungry.

We drove down the road a bit, through the village of Costei, and took a right into Tipari to pick up Tibi's mother and her friend. It was one of those cold, grey, wet days. The streets of Tipari were muddy enough for a volleyball match. The current song on Tibi's MP3 audio system was 'Dancing Queen' by Abba.

We cruised along E70 towards Timisoara. Well, perhaps 'cruised' is a bit of an exaggeration. After all, the road is in terrible condition, and has been under construction for decades. They just can't seem to get it right. In fact, they just repaired some sections, and I swear it's worse than it was before. Anyway, Tibi was driving, I was in the passanger seat and the rest were in the backseat, grumbling every time we hit a bump. We weren't 10 minutes into the ride before Tibi's mom started teasing me from the backseat about my ability to pronounce 'egészségedre.' I just laughed, politely saying that I've retired from speaking Hungarian. Soon enough we came to the village of Belint, and Tibi started slowing down while looking for something on the left side of the road. He stopped the car, finding what he had been looking for-- a man waiting in front of his house, a bag tightly clenched in his hand. I soon recognized the man; it was Karol, a friend of Tibi and his mother. Forgetting to look both ways, Karol hastily ran out into the street to come towards us, but he had to jump back when he heard the honks of an approaching truck. After the truck passed, Karol judiciously looked both ways and jogged across with his bag, which was apparently full of apples. All he had wanted to do was give us apples for the ride! I have no idea how he and Tibi had set up the apple transfer, since I hadn't seen Tibi use his phone at all during the drive, but they must have planned it somehow. Who knows. These sort of things happen all the time. Anyway, now well-stocked with apples, we continued on our way. The next Abba track started playing, I believe it was 'Money Money.'

Eventually we came to our destination, the village of Sanmihaiul German. The air in the pool hall was warm and thick with fog, it also had an unusual smell to it. The room was very crowded; apparently we weren't the only ones to have the idea to come to Sanmihai. All my companions had made it into the pool before me. So, when I entered the room, I was more concerned with finding my group than with the color of the water. Spotting them at the opposite corner, I walked over to meet them. It was only when I got closer, seeing Tibi in the water, that I noticed the color. It was black; I couldn't see anything below the water line. "Water's pretty clean, eh?" I astutely observed, adding, "Do you think it's safe to drink?" Always quick with the wit, Tibi commented, "it would be if it weren't for all the pee."

Needless to say, urine was not the only thing in that water. I just shrugged my shoulders and dipped in. Man, it was hot! I couldn't stand it for very long, so I decided to sit on the side and dangle my feet from the edge. Tibi came over to join me, deciding, like me, that the ambient temperature was warm enough. Not only was the heat hard to bear, but that pungent smell was also starting to get to me. I knew it was a familiar odor, but for some reason I couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't quite sulfurous, as you might expect in a thermal bath. It was something else altogether. In fact, now that I reflect on it, the smell was something like the inside of the old 'Muppets' lunch tin that I had during my kindergarten days-- the smell of old lunch meat, rotten bananas and spilt milk. Mmmmm. I Finally I asked Tibi what it was I was smelling. He looked at me, scrunched his nose and told me it was petrol. Of course! Oil! That explained the color of the water, as well as the slippery feel of my skin. I scrunched my nose too. "I don't much care for it either," Tibi declared.

As we were sitting there, the power suddenly cut out. As a result, the ventialtion fans stopped working, and the air, which was already hot and stifling, became even more so. Soon enough the 'pool boy' (a scruffy middle-aged man, pot-belly hanging out of his extra-small red t-shirt and cigarette dangling from his lip) came along to open the windows. This made some of the folks in the pool noticeably nervous, since open windows would invite that most unwelcome of guests: curent. The cool, moist air from outside flooded into the hall, and immediately condensed into a thick fog which can only be compared to my mother's pea soup (the kind of pea soup in which you can make your spoon stand up by itself). At least we could breathe.

Tibi and I continued sitting along the side of the pool, our feet turning into oily prunes. We both decided that the temperature was much more tolerable with the windows open, even if the fog made it nearly impossible to see. As he often loves to do, Tibi spent a good deal of time telling me jokes. Unfortunately, I usually have a terrible memory for jokes, and when the jokes are in Romanian, my memory is even less. So, whenever Tibi tells me a joke, which is virtually always, it usually goes in one ear and out the other and I can't recall it 5 minutes later. For the sake of this blog, that might be a good thing since most of his jokes wouldn't be appropriate to relate here anyway.

The electricity returned just as we were getting ready to leave, much to the joy of the cheering masses. I can only suppose they were cheering because the power was back, not because we were leaving. That's what I tell myself anyhow. We decided to head straight home, since we were hungry, and the pool hall, what with it's sopping-wet atmosphere and less-than-appetizing aroma, didn't seem like the ideal place to eat. So, we went to Simona's place, where she re-heated the chicken. We ate it with a prune-sauce and homemade wine. I noticed there was a vase with mistletoe in the middle of the table, so I explained to Tibi and Simona the typical Christmas tradition of hanging mistletoe in a doorway. Upon hearing what happens when two people meet under the mistletoe, Tibi's eyes lit up. "Mike, this is great! Why don't you make yourself a crown of mistletoe to wear at parties?" I explained to him that this isn't exactly how it's supposed to work. Instead, we decided it'd be more appropriate to carry around a cardboard doorframe with the mistletoe hanging from it. Silly, right? Such are conversations with Tibi. Anyway, I think I've got my next Halloween costume all figured out.

After dinner, I went back to my place to take a shower. I did my best to scrub the oil smell out of everything...but I fear I'll never get it out of my bathing suit.