Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Ave Maria, Caritas, Castelul Corvinilor, Christmas spirit, Corvin Castle, covrigi cu mac, Maria Callas, Nora, Peace Corps, Romania, secondary projects, sleeping in, toy drive
‘Tis the season for being touched by the Christmas spirit, but, today, I was sort of molested by it. It was unexpected and sudden–I feel dazed.
Fridays are typically my sleep-in day, as I don’t teach until 3PM. I always take my mornings slow–I prepare a big, warm breakfast, and spend about an hour reading blogs & news articles, and replying to e-mails. Today, however, I woke up before dawn, and was in an instant rush.
There is a weekend-long Christmas festival occurring at Castelul Corvinilor, and three of my more artistic students wanted to get involved. I contacted the volunteer organising the event, and he requested that my students put together some posters. My kids finished their posters yesterday, so I had to take them to Caritas, a local charity. One of my contacts at Caritas, Nora, was heading up to the castle, and she offered to take my posters along with her.
I threw on yesterdays clothes, pulled on my heaviest hoodie, scarf, and wool hat, and trekked out into the dim and dreary morning. Last night, it had snowed just hard enough for flakes to doze on any patch of exposed grass. Precipitation was still falling, but the earth was warming, and the ground was wet with melt. I was groggy, and hungry, but I knew I only had to press on a short way to Caritas, drop off the posters, then I could come home and crawl back into my sleeping bag on my little bed– there was a chance it would still be warm from my body heat.
I took a taxi to Petrosani, and walked to Nora’s office. I handed her the posters, and we chatted for a few minutes. I asked Nora how Caritas’ annual Christmas drive had gone. Last year, I helped Nora and her co-workers unload about 5,000 boxes full of Christmas packages from central Europe. I wanted to help this year, but the packages arrived on an afternoon when I was teaching. Nora told me that the event had been plentiful, but exhausting– they had received some 11,000 packages, and her whole staff had been up til midnight the last 3-4 days, sorting and stacking.
Nora casually asked me if any of my students needed Christmas presents this year, as there was an obvious abundance.
“Well,” Nora answered for me, “How many students do you have?”
“About 550.”
“Alright. If you can get a car here, today, we can give you 550 presents.”
It was exciting, and sort of hilarious. In Peace Corps, we have a half-motto that is something like “gauge your success by your effort given–never by the tangible output.” This is because, all too often, a PCV will pour their heart and soul into a project only to have it meet constant obstacles, and eventually be derailed altogether. Project failure is something that EVERY PCV will face, in one way or another (and often repeatedly).
Hence, I was shocked that, in a matter of moments, and really without trying, I had acquired a Christmas package for every single student at my school.
I ran back to school (and made a quick side-stop to buy Luna a half dozen soft, poppy seed pretzels from her favourite bakery in Petrosani). I called Directoara on the way, and she quickly found a school parent with a station-wagon and the morning free to help me. this man and I made three trips to Petrosani to pick up presents in sets of about 160.
We finished at about 1:00 in the afternoon. When I arrived (I took a taxi back so my seat could be used to accommodate the final 25 boxes) the kids were happily passing out packages, and trading their contents. Everyone was smiling, and proudly displaying new toys, candy, clothes. Happily, I discovered that there were no official classes to teach today, and the kids only had two hours of home-room to attend.
Luna pulled me into her office, to chat, and I bee-lined for the coffee machine, and then one of the remaining pretzels I had bought. Luna was listening to Ave Maria, as sung by Maria Callas. I admitted that I had never heard of her, and Luna scolded me and told me I would have to learn.
So, on the morning where I wore day-old clothes to run an errand and hadn’t anticipated being away for more than forty minutes, I somehow stumbled into the spirit of Christmas, and it pulled me along for a handful of hours. It ended most splendidly– sitting in the Director’s office, watching Luna move her hands about, like a conductor. Diving spirits of smoke sailed out into the air from the cigarette pinched between her finger tips. I did nothing but close my eyes, out of need to rest, but also in overwhelming appreciation for this wonderful moment, day, and everything.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: boys will be boys, construction equipment, DP, fascination, late, Peace Corps, Romania, time, Tonka
And because I was out late celebrating an American Thanksgiving, I didn’t make it home until almost 4AM. And because I am a little bit of an OCD boy, and I couldn’t get into bed until I had checked my email and washed the dirty dishes in my sink.
I woke up at 10 so I could eat two hours before karate. In my sleepy haze, I munched my usual, heaping breakfast of fruit & nut muesli and three cups of coffee. I was able to catch DP online, whom I had not spoken to in a few weeks. As we chatted, time played one of its favourite tricks on me, and suddenly threw forty minutes past me in a manner of seconds. I was too groggy to stop it, so I was unhappily shocked when I glanced at my clock and saw that it was already 11:45– I still had to pack my gym bag, walk to karate, and then change.
I sped out of my apartment down the small piata on the street outside of my building. As I came to the corner across from my supermarket, I found a large dump truck hunkered down in the road. In its bed, men were shoveling piles of hot asphalt onto the street. As I skipped around the grill of the truck, I saw a steam roller slowly inching over the piles of dark stone, grinding them down into a flat surface.
On the nearby sidewalk a few feet away, stood nine men. Each of them was thirty years old, or older. Some of the men stood close to one another, and some of them stood close to no one. Not a single man among them said a single word. They were all fixated on the small machine in front of them crushing rock into road.
I could not stifle my smile, nor the quiet laugh that accompanied it, but this was because I completely understood. Most men have a fascination with heavy construction equipment that reaches back to boyhood, and our bright yellow Tonka toys. No matter how tall or big we grow, few of us are able to outgrow our wonder of big machines that do neat things. Until today, I didn’t quite realise that the fascination was international– I probably should have. We boys will act like boys, no matter where we are.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: American sized beer, Brit, Dan, dancing, discotheque, Doru, Harlem, home-made wine, Keops, Ledy, M.A., Miha, Name Day, O.A., Peace Corps, Romania, thankful, Thanksgiving
People say that Thanksgiving eve is the busiest bar night in America. As a once-upon-a-time (and maybe again someday) service industry boy, I can say that this sounds about right–Thanksgiving eve makes twenty-somethings across America get dance-y and make bad decisions.
Last night, I had an American-style Thanksgiving night.
First, Harlem and I went to Ledy and Dan’s apartment, at around 7:30. Their neighbour, Brit, stopped by, and the five of us sat around and chatted. Dan brought out a four liter jug of fresh, home-made Romanian wine, which I thirstily put a dent in.
The apartment smelled really good–Ledy was baking potato wedges and a couple kilograms of turkey breast which were bubbling in black pepper and the same wine that I had already enjoyed three glasses of. We ate, hungrily and happily, before we moved to the living room to eat small spoonfuls of roasted apples while Ledy made beaded Christmas ornaments for Harlem and I.
I had adopted family, and good food and drink, and togetherness. The only thing that could have improved the meal was the faces of my Colorado family, and maybe a slice or two of pumpkin pie.
After my sixth glass of wine, I excused myself and walked two blocks to Keops. Keops is the only discotheque in the Jiu Valley (and during the day they make great pizza). I had a dancing date with a half a dozen women, to keep.
I tutor Doru’s two high school girls, M.A. and O.A.. As a result, I’ve become friends with Doru’s wife, Miha. Miha is the manager of a bank in Petrosani, and all of her colleagues are single women in their late twenties. Hence, Miha sends me weekly invites to visit to the bank with the pretence of possibly setting me up with one of her colleagues.
Last night, one of Miha’s colleagues was celebrating her name day. Hence, Miha, her colleagues, and her daughters decided to celebrate at Keops. I had been invited, and since I was literally a two block walk away (and sort of itching to get my dance on) I decided to attend.
One of Miha’s colleagues met me out front, and in a classic club tactic, she took me by the hand and hip and whisked me past the bouncer so that I wouldn’t have to pay the cover charge. I spent the next two hours nursing an American sized beer (the wine had nicely stifled my shyness) and being the only boy dancing amongst a handful of young women. Seemed a pretty ‘American’ something to be thankful for.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: Amers, connection, friendship, human web, MB, Peace Corps, Robert Frost, Romania, sarmale, The Road Less Traveled
There are times when our beautiful web of human interaction makes the world seem so tiny and sacred; yesterday was one of those days.
I woke up to receive an email from Amers, one of my dearest, who is in her first year of Teach for America, in Hawaii. Amers had forwarded me “The Road Less Traveled,” by Frost, along with some hope that my day was good. I re-read the lines, which I had not tasted in at least a year or so, and they were more beautiful and soul-piercing than ever before.
I found “Oh, I marked the first for another day!/ Yet knowing how way leads on to way/ I doubted if I should ever come back” to be more full of simple truth than my young (comparatively) self could have ever known.
I taught and danced through the minutiae that has become my developed, daily routine, and in the late evening I went to Karate class. After I had showered and dressed, I made plans with two of the guys to grab a beer at the bar directly underneath the gym. Just before we entered, I got a phone call from another dearest, MB, who was having a quiet sick-day at his station, in Antarctica.
I stood outside and talked to MB for 15 minutes, and felt like he wasn’t so far away as we giggled, cooed, and smiled in our voices. Then I went inside the bar, and over a 0.5 liter beer, my two friends and I discussed the regional differences of Romanian sarmale.
And life felt so close and simple and snug.
And I realized that, although I am learning to miss the amazing, our human web provides means of maintaining the most basic foundations of connection and friendship.
And although I know how way leads onto way, and I do doubt if I should ever come back to re-live these memories, the world has assured me that distance is indeed difficult, but not at all insurmountable.
And just because we each much take the road less traveled by, does not mean that our paths do not run parallel, and even occasionally come close to intersect again.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: best place in Bucharest, Bucharest, Bucuresti, Guinness, hookah, Lipscani, Peace Corps, quinoa, Romania, sushi, tea shop
My last few travels through Bucharest (Bucuresti), Romania’s capital, have brought me to what I consider the best place in the city: Lipscani.
Lipscani was the commercial center of Bucuresti during the middle ages, and its glory days continued onwards into the 20th century. All of Bucuresti was heavily bombed by the allies during World War II, however, which affected Lipscani’s presence as a commercial district. In 1977, a massive earthquake rocked the south-eastern part of Romania, during which much of Lipscani fell into disrepair. The entire area was tagged by Ceaușescu (Romania’s communist dictator until 1989) to be destroyed and rebuilt into the cookie-cutter ‘blocs’ that cover so many other places in Romania.
Fortunately for Romania, this never happened, and the area stayed ‘asleep,’ and untouched for a few decades.
Now, Lipscani is waking up, and is seeing massive restoration efforts. The result is some of the oldest and most authentic architecture in the entire city. Spires, twists, stones and domes everywhere.
And Lipscani is, to this American-born boy, the most progressive part of the city.
In Lipscani, you can find expensive sushi restaurants, and underground German eateries.
In Lipscani, there are skate shops, tea huts, and importers of all sorts of beautiful paisley and tye-dyed things from Nepal and India.
In Lipscani, you can find dried quinoa, hookah bars, and Guinness on tap.
In Lipscani, you can bump into stumbling Scottish soccer hooligans rolling and cursing from one UK pub to the next.
In Lipscani, you can find alternative life-style clubs carefully tucked under black awnings next to massive wall-sized murals of street-art.
So, in Lipscani, you find the city-feel that pervades places like London, Vienna, and Berlin.
So, Lipscani is the place in Bucuresti that feels like other cities in the EU, sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse.
From Piața Universitații, head south, towards Piața Unirii. Walk on the right side of the street. Across the street from the massive, glass-covered mall with large TV ’steps’ there should be a quiet, cobble-stone pedestrian street. Look for the massive cowboy sign (which may be removed soon) or a staircase disappearing down to traverse across the main boulevard. That’s where you want to be.
Lipscani is inside the red circle
Follow that little, cobbled street into Lipscani’s belly, and disappear for a long while.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: cleansing, Domn Cordea, fast, formal tense, informal tense, judo, karate, martial arts, Peace Corps, Romania, Romanian
This semester I’ve started devoting about six hours per week to martial arts. My school’s sport teacher, Domn Cordea, is a black-belt in two disciplines: Judo and Karate. He holds classes for two hours, four times a week. I usually make three out of the four (the other overlaps my late-Friday teaching schedule).
Domn Cordea is intimidating. He has penetrating eyes, and when he speaks he is deliberate and precise with his words. He tips his hat to any woman that he greets, and he often says things like “my esteemed colleagues,” when he addresses a room full of people. I only have one picture of him; it’s from a teacher’s party my school threw last year.
guess which is Domn Cordea
My own ability to speak Romanian diminishes in his presence, but this is not because I’m afraid of making grammatical errors when I speak to him. Rather, I’m afraid of accidentally addressing him in the “second person informal” tense. Romanian has a formal and informal second person tense, and it can be insulting to use the casual second person when speaking to someone in a position of heightened status.
And I have never heard ANYONE use anything other than the formal tense with Domn Cordea. He is almost sixty years old, so his age demands respect. He was also my school’s director for a long period of time. These things, including his mere presence, demand the formal tense. My school directors, visiting police officers, and members of the local government all speak to him the formal tense. In fact, I don’t even know what his first name is. To everyone he is simply “Domn Profesor,” or “Domn Cordea,” and with everyone he always uses the casual, informal tense.
He has told me stories of the training he did when he was younger: doing fist push ups on sheets of ice outside when it was -20 degree Celsius (-4 Fahrenheit). He has told me stories of how easy army training was in comparison to the enormous rigors of martial arts conditioning that he has subjected himself to.
It seems that his mental toughness has only strengthened with age. When I arrived in Petrila, last year, Domn Cordea was very skinny. He only weighed about 60 kilograms (132 lbs). He told me something about “treatment,” but in my low-Romanian ability, I could only piece together the conversation by guessing. I estimated that Domn Cordea was very sick, and was undergoing a harsh treatment to heal himself. Soon thereafter, he stopped treatment, and started gaining size again.
One recent evening, after two hours of karate, Domn Cordea told me he was undergoing treatment again. This time, I was able to understand that the ‘treatment,’ was a self-imposed, cleansing ritual that he does once a year. It consists of this: Domn Cordea will eat nothing for the next 40 days. He will drink only herbal tea until the treatment is over. This is what I’ve understood.
“By the time I’m done, I’ll be only bone,” he laughed and showed me his bicep, which was already shrunken and lean after 14 days straight of fasting.
I laughed in solidarity, and fascination, and I could not say anything except “yes, yes.”
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: body art, Directoara, Luna, Miner, Peace Corps, piercings, Placement Officer, professionalism, Romania, tatoos
My post “Tattoos” is my most popular Peace Corps blog post, according to my stats page. I’ve realized that most of its hits come from search traffic that include the phrases “Peace Corps,” and “tattoos.” Hence, it seems pretty clear that potential volunteers are sifting through blog pages trying to find some enlightening words regarding Peace Corps’ official stance on body art, and how that pertains to a volunteer’s service.
So, here’s my experience with tattoos and piercings, in the Peace Corps:
When my Peace Corps Placement Officer called me late in March of 2008, to discuss my placement in Eastern Europe, at one point he asked about my tattoos. I have couple-inch-wide bands wrapped around both forearms, just below my elbows. They are completely visible when I wear short-sleeved shirts:
'PROMETHEUS' and 'EUDEMONIA'
My Placement Officer said the tattoos could be a problem, as tattoos are not prevalent in other parts of the world, and carry a negative stereotype. He told me it would be best if I covered them at all times, and kept them hidden from public view. This spooked me, and I went out and bought multiple sets of UnderArmour forearms sleeves to wear during the summer months. I started composing imaginary stories about gross scars, or bad elbow joints, to tell.
When I got off the plane in Romania, one of the first questions I asked a current volunteer was whether there was a heavy stigma attached to tattoos and body art.
“What? No,” was his casual reply. “Lots of people here have tattooos and piercings.” And he was right.
When I met my directors for the first time (two middle-aged women) I wore long sleeves, despite it being the end of July. When they commented, I showed them my tattoos, and they asked “why would you hide those from us?” It was no big deal, and it was certainly no novelty. One of my best friends at site, Miner, has massive tattoos streaking across his shoulders and down his sides. One out of three guys at my local gym has a visible tattoo.
No volunteer that I know of in Romania, male or female, has ever been discriminated against for having tattoos or piercings. Granted, I receive more attention for them, but no more so than I did in America. I know female volunteers working in small towns that have nose piercings. These are modest in comparison to some of the glittery lip studs a few of my students have.
In retrospect, I figure that my Placement Officer was warning me merely as a matter of policy. In his defense, he had never been to Romania and he had no idea whether the culture really was aversive to body art or not. I imagine that the Peace Corps stance, world-wide, is that tattoos and piercings are a sensitive issue, and should be approached delicately.
I think there is some benefit to this, as no two Peace Corps regions, or countries, or country programs, or even towns are similar. What’s acceptable here in the Jiu Valley may not be in the more traditional Romanian regions of Maramureș, and Oltenia.
But, my advice to any potential/future PCV is this: piercings and tattoos will probably not cause any problems for you at site, despite what your Placement Officer says. Peoples of other countries will typically be flexible about this issue, as you’re an American ambassador, and body art is well-known element of US culture. People will certainly be curious, or fascinated by any tattoos that you have, but your inks will probably never be villified, nor will they ostracize you.
That said, there is time and place for everything. Contact a current volunteer in your assigned country, and see what they have to say. Also, be sensitive to professionalism, and how that relates to your work assignment. For example, I always wear long sleeves when I teach, so that my tattoos are covered. I do this because my directors and I have discussed the issue, and all of us agreed that covering my tattoos while I teach is a good, professional gesture. Almost any American educational institution might ask me to do the same.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: animals, cow, free-range, horse, juxtaposition, Miner, Peace Corps, pig, Romania, Surrogate, urban
Part of Romania’s uniqueness is the balancing act it plays between its old-world heritages and its simultaneous attempts to step into modernity. However, it’s clear that mentality moves at a slower pace than industrial progress (for better or for worse), and this leads to some interesting hybrids of that ‘old’ and ‘new’. I’ve written about this juxtaposition before–the ways in which the new democracy and the old ideals sometimes swirl together.
Therefore, it’s not uncommon for me to see families of pigs rummaging through nearby trash dumpsters. They’re not wild, by any means–a nearby farmer simply feels confident enough to let them wander around the town in a sort of ‘urban free-range,’ feeding. It terrifies me because these pigs are enormous. From tail to snout, they’re probably as tall as I am, and they weigh at least 3-4 times as much. Despite their size, they seem anything but dangerous–they happily sift through the trash munching up any foodstuff that’s remotely edible.
Last Wednesday, as I walked home from school, I was relatively unshaken to find two cows grazing alongside the entrance steps to my apartment building. One looked up at me, with her enormous, unsurprised, brown-cow eyes before she continued grazing. The second was completely unaffected by my presence, and ignored me altogether. Nearby, two teenage boys with pierced lips and red camouflage hoodies played music out of their mobile phones and joked as cow #1 swayed and ate less than five feet away from them.
And, a few nights later, I went to Miner’s and watched an illegally downloaded copy of “Surrogate,” while we drank a beer or two. I left at 12:30AM, and walked down the steep hill from Miner’s apartment building to my own. There, alongside the road, was a mare alone in the dark. She had no bridle or lead, and there was no one else around. The mare sniffed through a few piles of dirt before finding a mouthful of wet, fall grass to eat. I approached her slowly, and clicked my tongue, and held out the flat of my palm. She smelled me lazily, quickly determined that I had no food to give, and turned away from me to sniff out more clumps of grass.
A taxi rolled by, with its bright, blue, neon ground-lights burning into the moonless dark. Unphased by me or by the horse on the side of the road, the driver blasted techno as he sped on. I watched the cab quickly turn a corner, then pulled my own brown and black camouflaged hood over my head, and continued my short midnight walk home.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: AMAC, awkward, Campia Turzii, Cluj-Napoca, Harlem, J-dub, near death experience, Peace Corps, Romania, trains, traveling, Turda
This weekend, Harlem and I took a trip to Turda to see AMAC and J-dub. I’ve written before that public transportation in Romania is generally the stuff of crazy adventure: characters are met, novel experiences are had, and ‘patience, patience, patience’ becomes my mantra. This trip, however, aside from the typical ‘outside of your comfort zone’ stuff, I had a little ‘life-flashes-before-your-eyes’ experience.
The first set of things were ‘normal:’ Harlem and I almost missed our first train north, and then almost hopped off it a station too soon (this is easy to do, and I’ve done it before). We got hit up for money by the same man three different times at the next train station before we almost boarded the wrong train. Then, I carried a thankless woman’s 60 lb bag through three sets of long train corridors. Dub me awkward.
The near-death moment, however, came when Harlem and I arrived at our final stop, Campia Turzii (about 45 minutes southwest of Cluj-Napoca). J-dub and Hummingbird told us that directions to J-dub’s apartment were really difficult to give from the Campia Turzii train station, and that it would be best if we paid for a (cheap) cab ride.
Harlem and I were walking down the concrete platform, alongside the train we had just exited–it was between us and the station. As we walked, I pulled out my phone to check J-dub’s address, and Harlem said “wow, look how far out the train is hanging over the platform.” In hindsight, this was clearly the stuff of foreshadow.
I stopped at a place where Harlem and I could cross the train tracks once our train left. Each set of tracks were separated by a 1.5 meter wide patch of concrete, and this is where we stood. As Harlem noted before, trains bulge outward, which closes the gap significantly. With my head down, and the train next to us wheezing and hacking, I couldn’t hear the train coming in the opposite direction. My duffel bag was hanging out into the air behind me, and that space was about to be filled by a fast-moving train headed in the opposite direction.
Harlem saw this, and grabbed me to move me forward just as the other train came by. We were trapped for about ten seconds between both trains, being whipped by the blast of air forced down the platform. The second train continued on, train one suddenly lurched and slid away, and I stood dazed on the platform, illuminated by the now unobstructed station.
“I almost got hit by a f***ing train,” I almost yelled. My adrenaline rush became laughter, and I surpressed all my ‘what might have been,’ musings that wanted to ripple through my mind. Really, it wasn’t so bad–it seemed fairly normal given the tone that the night had set for us.
Filed under: Peace Corps Romania | Tags: hiking, Parâng, Parângul Mare, Peace Corps, Romania
From August 08 to August 09, Parângul Mare loomed over me, from my kitchen window.
It’s the third highest peak in Romania, but I, a self-proclaimed wilds rambler, hadn’t found my way to its summit.
On September 12th, however, I finally found my way there with three other PCVs, and three Romanian friends.
The pictures can be seen on flickr. Enjoy.
