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...

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). Also, they designed spiral staircases 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). Really interesting stuff!

Today I'm back in Dublin, staying with an older Irish fellow named Loch. His place is a quaint little house with tiny windows, shelves of books, and lots of old trinkets scattered about. It's in the east of the city, near the coast. He welcomed me with a cup of hot tea and some apple cake. Loch 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...

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 that the place now feels familiar. 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 clew 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

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...

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!

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 body-odor smell of 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)

-seeded grapes

-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

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 up to:

On Tuesday, June 9th I went to Timisoara because the current US Charge d’affairs for Romania, Ms. Jeri Guthrie-Corn, 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. Before that, however, the 12th graders performed the traditional ‘serenada,’ in which each of the 12th grade 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 students. 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 with the students. 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.

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 (that second part 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 vibrant passion. 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 described.

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 artists from New York said sounded strongly influenced by klezmer. I thought that was pretty fascinating.

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. One of our party happened to be a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Ukraine. He spoke the language 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, the first settlement we came across. 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 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.

I took a very uncomfortable train back to Lugoj from Sighet. Arriving at 6am, after 12 hours on the train 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 went to Denmark with Martin for the Roskilde music festival, just outside Copenhagen. After being in Romania for the last two years, Copenhagen was a bit of a stunning experience. 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. 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. Chris had finished his service, and was flying home from Istanbul since it was the cheapest flight he could find. So, we all went together to see him off and spend some last few moments together. 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 some great food and engaged in some wonderful conversations. Eva and I also had some Indian food at a restaurant on Brick Lane, checked out the National Gallery, took some time to explore a bit of the East side 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.

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 (Tirgoh-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 yet what our role will be; all I know is that we’ve been asked to help out with the general organization of things. 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.

So, that brings us pretty much up to date. When I get back to Lugoj I promise to update this post with some pictures...so, stay tuned.

One of my side-projects this semester has been trying to establish a partnership bewteen Brediceanu (the 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 (if they cycle too quickly, hit the pause button). 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:

When I arrived here nearly two years ago, it seemed like 27 months would be an eternity. However, those 27 months 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. Such sentiments are extremely touching, but they don'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 that rough start, they soon became one of my favorites. And likewise, I think they've come to enjoy working with me. In fact, at our last class together, they gave me a 'Romania' souvenir clock and a Lugoj coffee mug. It warmed my heart to think that they thought so much as to give me going-away presents.

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 context 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 stirred to know that our time together 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. I realize that I'm running out of time to do all the things I want to do. And, moreover, 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.'

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

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 traditional Banat-style house, 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

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. However, apparently it's not acceptable to give anything less than a 10 to a member of the mayor's family.

I'm sorry that he 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.

From River Clean-up 08-05-09

It's long been a goal of mine to expose my students to volunteer work. When I was a student, I did a lot of volunteer work, and greatly benefited from it. 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 by the end they 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. 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.

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 there and take 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 and even German. 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. They have clothes, fruits, vegetables, meats, dairy, flowers, spices, cleaning products, pots, brooms. You can even get lunch or a beer at the snack bar. In the summertime you can find hot boiled corn. One time I even managed to find a guy who could exchange my surplus of Serbian money into Euros (the banks wouldn't even do it).

With the 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.

Nationalist riots have broken out in Chisinau, the capital of the Republic of Moldova (Romania's neighbor to the East, and at one time part of Romania). These protests are in response to recent elections, which opponents say were neither free nor fair. At the moment, the border between Romania and Moldova is essentially closed, 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

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.

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 closed--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. It was our job to clean the place up a bit, to sort through everything and slavage what we could.

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

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 to 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...

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 out of the blue 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 mothers 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 countries; jagged or missing, or gold teeth are much more common sights 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 cost anywhere between 300-500 euros. Deciding that's too much money, the lady goes home. She happens to look in the newspaper and finds an advertisement for 'slightly used' dentures ranging from 50-100 euros. Attracted by the price, she calls the number. The man asks her to come to his home so she can see his selection. When she gets there he takes 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; it just needs a little 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.

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, never make, but then again, given the how much I travel by train, 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.

So, I suppose I should explain the recent developments regarding 'Project Lugosi' that lead up to this trip to the archives. A number of people have approached me after reading the February newspaper article about the project. 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 people 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. After hitting this dead end, the plaque was supposedly stowed in a dark cellar somewhere and essentially forgotten. In fact, it turns out that this rumor is 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 told me, however, that before we can even think about mounting the plaque, we need to procure the proper documents to prove his house is the one that we claim.

Around this same time I received a useful article from Mr. Bloch (the fellow who's been helping me with this project from the very beginning). The article, "Dracula war ein Lugoscher" (written in German, as the title might imply), was published in 1993. It provides a pretty detailed account of Bela's early years, and more importanly, lists primary sources where the Author got his information. 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.

So, the next logical step was to track down these sources. I first went to the church and asked the pastor if I could look at the church 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 school 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 local 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. The paperwork itself is 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, not quite the type you'd expect to find in such an antiseptic place. She sat me down at the table, and placed a stack of papers in front of me. Some of them 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 these class records listed the family address, so they didn't turn out to be as helpful as I would have hoped. Even if they didn't mention a home address, they did list his birthdate, religion, county of residence and father's name, so it seems like they covered every other tangential 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 take a look at 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 the book from 1893-4, nor do any other the other student's father's 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). 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! Certainly much cooler than a Chuck-e-Cheese membership.

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

I recently bought a cardigan. I like it because it makes me feel a bit like Mister Rogers. Maybe it's the whole coming-home-from-school-and-changing-into-casual-clothes routine. There's just something assuaging about that, even if it is mundane.

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 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.

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). On the walk to school this morning, I saw some children having a snowball fight on the sidewalk. One of the kids hit another directly on the back of his hood. The victim spun around in a fury, yelling "ah ha! te spăl eu!" This would litterally translate as "I'm going to wash you." "Huh?" I thought as I stared at them. 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 young, athletic 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. After Sima ran out of snowballs, I figured his ambush was finished, so I came out of hiding. When he saw me, he said, "Oh Mike! Had you been here just a little earlier, I would have washed you." I knew it; 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.

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 pause 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 musli 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. Abba was playing on Tibi's MP3 audio system.

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, a bag tightly clenched in his hand, waiting in front of his house. I soon recognized the man; it was Karol, a friend of Tibi and his mother. Karol hastily ran out into the street to come towards us, forgetting to look both ways, but had to jump back when he heard the honks of an approaching truck. After the truck passed, Karol 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.

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 any of him 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 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.

This culinary adevnture began over a month ago. Before Christmas I was in Szeged, Hungary with Mr. and Mrs. Bloch (acquaintances from Lugoj). While there, we went to a cafe, and Mr. Bloch insisted I try the chestnut puree. I'd never heard of such a thing; as far as I was concerned, chestnuts came in two varieties- roasted or unroasted. Boy, was I wrong! Turns out the chestnut universe is much more complicated than I had ever conceived.

Out of puree curiosity (get it?), I ordered a portion of the chestnut dessert. It looked a little like vermicelli covered in whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate. Simply put, it was delicious! Before we left Szeged, we stopped at a store so I could pick up a package of frozen chestnut puree to take home.

The puree sat in my freezer until tonight, when I finally decided to try making the dessert at home. I took the package out to thaw, and bought some heavy cream. I just needed something with which to whip the cream, and something to transform the puree into worm-like strands (viermi, which is in fact how one would describe them in Romanian). A whisk would suffice for the cream, but I knew I'd have to be a little more creative with the 'worms.'

As I've done before in this sort of situation, I went my neighbors to see if they could help me out. My land-lady appeared not to be home, so I went to Vasile, one door over, and asked if he had a pasta press, food mill or potato ricer. He hailed his wife who came out of the kitchen, saying she didn't have anything of the sort. Ok, I thought, 'what about a garlic press?' No such luck. They asked me exactly what I was trying to do, if I was doing something with garlic they'd be happy to let me borrow their grater. I explained I didn't need a grater, I needed some sort of press because I was trying to make castane cu frisca. They looked at me kind of funny, and asked, "then what do you need the garlic press for?" There seemed to be some confusion about whether a garlic press would be suitable to crush a chestnut. I tried to explain that I wasn't trying to crush chestnuts; I had already bought pureed chestnut, and I wanted to make it into worms. This led to a bit more confusion: "wait, what about worms now?!" In retrospect, I suppose 'spaghetti' might have been a better word choice, but at the time all that came to mind was 'worms.' In any case, we all had a good laugh.

Though he couldn't help me with the garlic press, Vasile suggested I run to the pharmacy to pick up a syringe, break off the tip and use that to make 'worms.' Even though plunging my dessert through a medical piston pump sounded intriguing, I decided instead to go ask Doamna Sidei for help. Doamna Sidei is a Ukrainian lady that lives nextdoor, but I rarely speak to her, which is a shame- it turns out she's a really nice lady. I asked her if she had anything I could use. Unfortunately, her pasta press had just broken, but she gladly gave me her garlic press and a whisk.

When I got back to my apartment, I soaked the garlic press in vinegar and washed it off, trying my best to scrub off the years of accumulated garlic smell. I quickly looked up how to whip cream, never having done it before. Seemed simple enough, so I got to work whipping. No one warned me that the cream would splatter everywhere, but I quickly found it out. Once it was sufficiently beaten, I put the cream in the fridge and started making worms. I grabbed the garlic press, gave it a little sniff (seemed passable), broke off little chunks of the puree and started pressing. The resultant substance appeared to be something between vermicelli and dog food, but it tasted pretty good. Since the puree already had sugar added, the only thing I added to it was the whipped cream. I made 5 portions-- for Doamna Sidei, Vasile, his wife, their daughter Betty and myself.

I brought the first cup over to Doamna Sidei along with the stuff she had let me borrow. She was a bit surprised, and promised me she'd try it, but I got the impression she didn't want to eat it in front of me, so I let her be. I then brought the rest of the cups over to Vasile's apartment, saying "I brought some worms for you all!"

Vasile took his cup, looked at it inquisitively, furrowing his brow and shifting his eyes from the cup to me. He slowly raised it up to his nose, and sniffed the contents hesitantly. I waited expectantly, wondering what he'd say. He tried it. I noticed a look of relief on his face, and he said, "it's not bad, but we'll see how I feel in the morning!" I retorted, "yeah, you gotta be careful about eating worms."

After Vasile encouraged them to go ahead, Betty and her mother tried their cups as well. After which, I was offered coffee. I don't usually drink coffee, but in this case I accepted and we sat around and talked for a while. My conversations with Vasile are usually very short, taking place in passing on the stairs or in the streets, and the majority of our exchanges tend to be devoted to practicing how to pronounce "well" (Me: 'Ciao Vasile, how are you?' Vasile: "Ciao Mike, I am wale." Vasile is quite keen on practicing his English, limited as it may be). But, my visit this evening allowed us to converse in more depth.

I only intended my visit to last a few minutes, but it ended up lasting a few hours and we talked about everything--from pesticides, to AIDS, to communism, to the gas crisis, to the Masonic order, to whether I'm Jewish, to why the Peace Corps is not a religious organization. In the course of the conversation, I even managed to explain to Vasile that Canada is not in fact part of the United States of America, nor are Mexico or Columbia. He believed that the Americas, as in the entire hemisphere, is the same thing as the USA. I assured him this is not the case, that even if it's called the United States of America, it doesn't mean it's a conglomeration of all the countries from across the continent. He had some trouble understanding the distinction between 'state' and 'country,' which in Romanian almost always mean the same thing. And then there was the matter of Washington DC, "is it a state? no? Is it the collective capital for all the states?" I tried my best to muster a limited explanation of federalism. In the end I think he got the idea, noting how different the American system is from Romania.

Eventually I got home, mentally drained. I haven't felt that exhausted since I my first months in Romania, when even the simplest conversations knocked the wind out of me. But, I was quickly revived by a dollop of fresh whipped cream from the fridge.

Found this as we were walking along the streets of Belgrade New Year's Eve

(Thanks to Sarah for the pic)

Yep, that's me they're talking about at the top of the front page of Lugoj's weekly newspaper! I've been trying to get them to publish something about "Project Lugosi" for some time now. I submitted a couple articles, but they were never published. The paper told me that it was impossible to publish my stuff since at the time the elections were going on and a lot of the space in the paper was devoted to political ads.

After the elections were over, one of the writers at Redesteptarea, Cristian Ghinea, called me to his office to talk about the project. He too is passionate about local history (in fact, he's written a book on the topic of Lugoj history and folklore). So I did a short interview with him, after which he gave me a copy of a documentary about Lugosi that was made by some people in Timisoara in 2007-- quite well-done by the way

After my interview with Ghinea, I looked expectantly at the papers every week to see if his piece had been published. But no. The holiday season had already befallen us, and work at the paper had been disrupted (as it was just about everywhere else in town).

However, just this past Thursday I met with an acquaintence on the street and he said, "I saw you in the paper!" "Oh yeah," I responded, "what about?" "Something about a legal infraction," he retorted with a twinkle in his eye, obviously joking. My hunch was that the piece had finally been published, so I went to the nearest news kiosk and bought a copy of Redesteptarea, and as soon as I saw that picture of Dracula at the top corner, my suspicions were confirmed. I'm glad it was finally published; hopefully more peolpe will now be aware of my intentions and perhaps it'll create a public discussion.

You can find the article HERE (in Romanian)

Here's a translation in English:

AN AMERICAN TRACKS DOWN DRACULA OF LUGOJ

by Cristian Ghinea

01/08/09

The great Lugojean actor, Bela Lugosi is better known in America than in his hometown.

Michael Nork is an English teacher at "Coriolan Brediceanu" National College. Before arriving in Lugoj, he had heard of the city, knowing it as the birthplace of Bela Lugosi. But Michael was surprised to find that the actor is almost unknown here in town.

In the United States, Lugosi is a symbol of Hollywood; he is considered a pioneer of the horror genre and the creator of the Dracula persona for the film industry.

"To my surprise, many of my friends and colleagues in Lugoj said they'd never heard this name. It's something surprising because Bela Lugosi is quite famous in the United States. He was the Hollywood actor who defined our modern conception of Dracula and he was born right here in Lugoj. Being that Bela Lugosi is such an important personality where I come from, I naturally assumed that he would be just as important here in his hometown. Anyhow, I came to discover that this is not the case. And this might be because he left this region long ago and became famous there in the United States. But, even if he left at a young age, he never forgot from where he came, adopting the stage name Lugosi to remember his place of birth," says Michael Nork.

Finding Lugosi's childhood home

The idea to look for Lugosi's home came to Michael around Halloween. "Seeing vampire masks and the like, I thought of Dracula and, naturally, Lugosi," says Nork. Not knowing where to start, he asked a few locals if they knew where the home was. Since no one seemed to know, he postponed his search for a while. Then, he decided to try a Google search and discovered an article written by Gary D. Rhodes, a renowned professor of film and Lugosi biographer. Rhodes came to Lugoj in 2003 just to find the famous actor's birthplace. After talking with a local historian and consulting town records, Rhodes located the house at 6 Kirchengasse (today Bucegi Street), right next to the Roman Catholic church. "I've passed by this house many times without thinking for a second. There isn't even a plaque to recognize who was born there. To me it seems ironic that Lugosi, an actor with such international fame --probably the most important personality to come from Lugoj-- is practically unknown in this area. Maybe it's just my humble opinion, but I think that the memory of Bela Lugosi deserves at least some sort of recognition, whether a plaque on his home, or just this simple article. After all, it would be a shame if we forgot the man who never forgot Lugoj,” declares Nork.

Dracula deserves at least an exhibition and a memorial plaque

"In the first place, I’d like have an exhibition about the man and his career at the Pro Arte art gallery, and afterwards put it in the town’s history museum, when the renovations are complete,” hopes Michael Nork, adding that Gary Rhodes, director, documentarian, and film historian has promised to help Nork with making an exposition which would commemorate the career of this actor.

In this way, Lugoj will receive photos, original files and cinematographic materials. Here in Lugoj, Michael has benefited from the help of Ivan Bloch, director of the Rotary Club, who has guided him with his requests on a local level.

"We've spoken with the mayor, Francisc Boldea, about putting a plaque on the house on Bucegi Street, and we got his initial approval. We hope that we’ll also have the consent of the current owner,” continues Nork

Winter has finally arrived! For the past 2 weeks the high temperatures have been consistently below freezing. Call me crazy, but I love cold weather. Last winter in Lugoj was sort of a bust; it hardly snowed and the highs were in the mid 30s-40s. I think it was actually cold for one week in total. This was a big disappointment because for me it doesn't really feel like winter unless my toes are constantly cold and my nose runs like a faucet.

In fact you'd probably be right to call me crazy. I'm not sure why I like winter so much, given all its burdensome inconveniences. I mean, showering is a big hassle (especially when your bathroom doesn't have any heat!), the utilites bills shoot through the roof, and you have to wear a jacket any time you leave the house (which is something I patently disklike. Heck, I don't even like socks). Add to all of that the danger of freezing pipes--something my father's careful obsession with 'home-winterizing' taught me to fear like the plague.

Being on vacation from school last week, I left Lugoj for a little jaunt through Serbia and Bosnia. I took what I thought were all the necessary precautions--I watered my plants, washed the pile of dirty dishes in my sink, threw out the garbage and shut off my main waterline. Everything seemed in order as I locked my door and left. However, upon my return, I turned the mainline back on and discovered the water was no longer flowing. It seemed that the pipe had frozen. Gasp!

I should explain that I live in a building that's at least one hundred years old, and none of its apartments originally had electricity or running water. In my particular apartment, a bathroom was added only a mere 2 years ago. In order to direct water to my apartment, the plumbers ran a pipe from one of the stores below me, up through the back balcony and into my apartment. The problem with this setup is that, even though it is mostly covered by concrete, the pipe isn't insulated. So, it's essentially exposed to exterior temperatures, which is never a good idea (just ask my dad). So, of course as soon as the air got cold enough, the pipe froze, especially since I had been gone for an extended period and hadn't run the water in a while. Clearly the man who installed the pipe wasn't thinking about what happens to water when it drops below 32 degrees. Clearly he'd never met my father.

Returning home after a long trip, all I wanted to do was take a hot shower. But obviously I couldn't do that. So I resigned to sleeping in my filth until I could tackle the problem in the morning. The next day I spoke with my land-lady and neighbors and asked if they had water issues. Nope, they all seemed to be problem-free; I was the only one. So, my land-lady and I called up all the plumbers we knew, asking them to come out and check things out. But, no one was available, or no one wanted to come (I tend to think my land-lady has a certain unfavorable reputation among all the tradesmen in town: "oh no, Stefania is calling again! Quick, pretend you have the flu!"). So, I decided to run some extension chords out my window and place some space heaters along the pipe. I set it all up and left it to run all night long. However, this morning there still wasn't any water.

At this point, clearly pushing the limits of hygiene, I meekly asked one of my colleagues at school if I could shower at his home. Lucky for me and the public in general, he said yes. So I finally got a shower, but I was still keen to get a plumber to my apartment as soon as possible...otherwise I'd have to use the showers at the school gym. I wasn't prepared to relive highschool.

So tonight my land-lady made a phone call to a plumber she didn't know, and surprisingly he didn't know her. He came over, and it was imediately clear that he had a good handle on his trade. He worked tirelessly, heating up the concrete with a flame in the hopes that pipe underneath would warm up and melt the ice. After about 3 hours and still no success, he dejectedly strolled into my apartment and said he was giving up for the night. He added, "you basically have two options: 1. wait until the weather warms up enough to naturally melt the ice--certainly not my first choice, or 2. tear up the concrete and rip out the pipe. The more I considered my options, the more attractive nr. 2 sounded, even though I knew it was going to be a pain in the neck. I was seriously considering it, when all of a sudden, I heard the sound of water running in my bathroom. "no way,' I thought, "it can't be!" I flung open my bathroom door, and sure enough, my water had returned. We all sort of jumped for joy.

I guess the moral of the story is that we blindly rely on so many seemingly insignificant modern conviences. We're only really aware of this fact when they're absent. Or, I guess the moral of the story could be to insulate your pipes!

Yesterday I had the chance to go to the village again with Tibi. This time he revealed to me the age-old process of making tuica (tzoo-eeka). Usually, tuica is made from plums, but pears or apples can also be used. In fact, just about any type of fruit works, and each gives the tuica a unique flavor. In this case we used grapes, since Tibi had a bunch left over that weren't good enough for making wine.

So, how is tuica made?

Step 1:

Let the fruit--in our case, grapes-- ferment in a big barrel for 6-8 weeks.

Srep 2:

Sprinkle a bit of sand on the bottom of the distiller tank and fill it to the brim with the month-old grape mush.

Step 3:

Put the cover on the tank and seal it so steam doesn't escape during the distilling process. For the sealant, Tibi prepared a glue-like mixture of hot water, flour and wheat chaff.

Step 4:

Light the fire and wait. Tibi gave me nothing more than corn stalks to feed the fire. And, since they burn up quickly, I had to be vigilent and constantly add more stalks (even though wood would have made my job easier, it's too precious to waste on anything but heating the home).

When the tank begins to boil, steam travels through a copper pipe which is routed into a barrel of water (pictured above). The water cools the pipe causing the vaporized alcohol within to condense and dribble into a collecting pot (just like in high school science class, except back then we weren't making alcohol, unless it was 'Bootlegging 101'). The process takes a while, but you know it's time to stop collecting when the tuica starts to taste sour-- at which point it's little more than musty fruit juice.

There you have it, tuica!

In February I did a post about the Romanian Revolution in 1989. I thought this video would be an appropriate follow-up for those who are interesetd. It's a 36-minute clip taken from a 1990 episode of the Irish news program Today Tonight. Filmed right after the Revolution, it gives a brief overview of the events of the Revolution and offers an interesting perspective on the immediate aftermath.

This clip is relatively long, so it may require some time to load. Also, the video flickers a bit for the first minute or so, but afterwards things smooth out.

My post about Bela Lugosi, combined with some old Lugoj postcards I recently came across, got me thinking about the town's history. It was really a bustling little community through the turn of the century, being the prefecture of Caras-Severin county (since then, however, the county lines were redrawn, and Lugoj became part of Timis county).

Below is an example of an old photo of Lugoj which, as you can see, I tried to replicate.

Lugoj of yesteryear

Lugoj 2008

Bela Lugosi is the son Lugoj forgot. I was thinking about him recently--maybe because Halloween is approaching. Of course, when one thinks about Lugosi, images of Dracula instantly come to mind. The man himself is forever associated with Dracula, and his iconic portrayal fully embodies 20th century notions of Bram Stoker's classic vampire.

Lugosi was born in 1882 as Béla Ferenc Blaskó in Lugos, Hungary (the town only became Lugoj, Romania after 1918). He left his home at a very young age, never to return (sources cite conflicting reasons for why exactly he left. While some say he ran away because he was fed up with school, others state that he left because his father died and he had to find work). At first he labored in the mines of Resita (south of Lugoj), but it seems he found that line of work unfulfilling and decided to pursue an acting career. His quest to become an actor brought him to Szabadka, where he eventually found work with a theater group. Travelling with that group, he performed in Szeged, Temesvar (today Timisoara), Sibiu, Kolozsvar, etc. The name Lugosi, a derivation of the name of his hometown of Lugos, was the stage name he took during this period. By 1910 he began working for the Szeged theater company, and his work there eventually catapulted him to the National Theater in Budapest. After 1918, his political leanings forced him out of Hungary. He went to Germany, where he played in several films and was fairly well-recieved. But, despite his relative success in Berlin, his heart was set on emigrating to the United States. He first moved to New York, where he played Dracula on Broadway. He finally settled in Hollywood, and quickly became one of the era's most famous horror-film actors.

A while ago I decided to look for Lugosi's childhood home. Not knowing where to start, I asked some locals if they knew where the house was. No one seemed to know; in fact many people hadn't even heard of him before. Since I was getting nowhere, I put the search on hold for a while. Then, just yesterday I decided to google 'Bela Lugosi' and came up with this article, written by a Lugosi biographer who came to Lugoj on a 'pilgrimage.' He details how, after talking to a local historian and consulting town records, he located the very house where Lugosi grew up: 6 Kirchengasse (today 6 Bucegi Street), right next to the Catholic Church in the center of town.

Literally right around the corner from my apartment, I have passed by this house many times without even thinking twice. It's quite an unassuming little structure. No one lives there anymore. In fact, until recently, it housed a clothing shop--a shop where I once bought some socks. But now the shop is closed and the building is abandoned (maybe I should have bought more socks?).

One might think the town of Lugoj would want to celebrate Lugosi's legacy, but there isn't even so much as a plaque identifying his home. Although he left town at an early age, he never forgot where he came from (as evidenced by the stage name he chose). Local memory, however, has let him fall into obscurity. I find it ironic that Lugosi, an actor of international fame--arguably the most famous personality to come out of Lugoj--is virtually unknown throughout the area.

The Blasko residence

This weekend I went the Romanesti cave for a concert put on by the Banat Philharmonic from Timisoara. Last year I tried to attend the concert, but, because of a misunderstanding about the date, I ended up arriving a week too late. This year, however, I managed to see the concert. I tagged along with a group of teachers and students from the high school. After the concert we went for a nice walk through the woods. The weather was great! Check out the pictures:

See the whole album

For me, the perfect fall day includes a number of elements: clear skies, crisp air, rich-colored foliage, country drives, sweaters, cider, apple-picking and pumpkins. Although the autumn season in Romania is quite different from what it is in the North-Eastern US, there is still a lot to enjoy about it.

For example, the weather this past weekend was gorgeous. Even if the air wasn't as cool and crisp as I like it (actually, it was quite warm), at least it was sunny and clear. And, while I wasn't able to go for drive through the countryside, I did manage to go for a bike ride-- which was probably a better choice anyway.

Early Saturday morning two of my students from the 11th grade (Emma and Paul) and I boarded a train to Margina (a town in Eastern Timis county, on the 'margins' as it were). We had our bikes with us, and since we couldn't manage to fit them in the seating compartments, we had to stand with them in the hall. Luckily, it was a super 'low-budget' train, so they're somewhat lax about the bike fee. When the controller came to see our tickets, he didn't seem too surprised by our bikes; apparently he was pretty accustomed to seeing passengers in the halls with bikes. He did, however, mention the extra fee. Paul, as kindly as he could put it, asked, "but can't we come to some sort of understanding?" We could tell by his demeanor that the controller was a jolly old fellow, and he said, "aw heck, just leave some money in the controller's compartment at the end of the car." So we did.

So, the upside of the cheaper trains is that you can still get away with things like that. However, the downside is that they're extremely slow, and they stop at every village, intersection, sign post, and chicken coop along the way. So, after 1 and a half hours we had covered the 40km to Margina. We bought some supplies at a little corner shop, and headed on our way towards the village of Romanesti.

We took a dirt road through corn fields, lined with old wooden telephone poles and trees with bright yellow leaves (if they hadn't already turned brown). I certainly miss the vibrant colors that characterize fall in New England-- the reds and oranges--but the scenery was still interesting. Entire families seemed to be rustling among the cornstalks to gather the cobs (It looked like everyone had come out: parents, children, cousins and even grandparents and grandchildren). They dumped the fruits of their labor into horse-drawn carts to be carried back to the village for winter.

We finally arrived in Romanesti, where the scenery changed from cornfields and wagons full of corn cobs to houses and wagons full of wood-- yet another preparation for winter. When wood is delivered to a home, it is usually dumped on the street/sidewalk in front of the home, where it is sorted, chopped and then carried inside the gate to be stacked and stored. Our arrival in Romanesti was welcomed by the sights and sounds of men hard at work doing exactly that. In one particular area of the village the road runs parallel a little brook. I noticed the brook had a reddish tinge to it. There was a pungent smell in the air, the smell of woodsmoke mixed with fermenting plums--unmistakable signs that the villagers were making tuica.

From the main street in Romanesti we took a left up a dirt road to the Romanesti cave. Not more than 200 yards up the road we came to a hill on top of which there was a cemetary and an old wooden church (imagine a log cabin with a steeple). After about 40 minutes we came to the cave, and equipped with flashlights and headlamps, went inside. Almost immediately the bats greeted us by diving at our heads. I took a moment to throw pebbles up in the air and watch as the bats dove at them, thinking they were bugs-- an old trick my father taught me (he knew it doesn't take much to entertain me). As we went farther into the cave, the squeaks of the bats grew louder and the filth covering the rocks and ground also increased (ewww). There were several different routes and passages leading off the main chamber, so we took some time to explore them. I took a few pictures, which you can see at the link below.

After finishing at the cave, we went back the way we had come from Romanesti and then continued our bike ride on through the village of Tomesti, until we reached Liman's Valley. Unfortunately, we couldn't go any further because we had a train to catch. So we turned around and headed back to Margina. Once we got back to the train station, we found there was no one at the ticket office, which is quite typical for such small towns, which don't generally see a lot of traffic. So Paul asked around, and a little boy told him to knock on a specific door. He did so, and the door opened, the station guard emmerged, and Paul asked for tickets to Lugoj. 'So,' I thought to myself, 'that's how it works at these smaller stations!' It was actually kind of a revelation for me because, up until this point, if I hadn't found anyone at the ticket booth, I'd just board the train without a ticket and then buy one from the controller, explaining that I wasn't able to get a ticket at the station-- which is much more complicated than what Paul did. We got our tickets, little pieces of cardboard pre-stamped with the station of origin, the destination and the cost. Tickets from larger stations are usually printed out by a computer. However, many of the smaller stations still use this old-fashioned system, a remnant of a time before there were computer systems to manage ticket sales. The way this manual system works is very simple. There is a wall of hooks in the ticket office. On each hook hang cardboard tickets for every possible destination. So, the ticket vendor must select the proper ticket from many variants arranged on the wall. Think of it as the telephone switchboard of train stations.

The cardboard ticket

The next morning I got a phone call. It was from Tibi, who you may remember from my post of June 10th. He said, "I'm going to the village today to pick grapes. I'm leaving now; do you want to come?" Once again, no advanced warning, but I've come to expect that from Tibi. I said, "sure, why not." After all, I had helped him pick plums in Tapia (a village just outside Lugoj) a few weeks before, and I had said I'd like to help him again if he needed it. I like doing physical work; it's a good break from school. Moreover, I like working with Tibi, he's got a great attitude and a sense of humor to match. I also like going to the village to see his mom and eat some of her delicious Hungarian cuisine.

We picked grapes till all the buckets were overflowing. The whole time we talked. I enjoy talking to Tibi because he doesn't know English (only Hungarian and Romanian), so I'm forced to express myself in Romanian. I think I've improved quite a bit with my fluency from talking to him. When I first met him I had a hard time following what he said, but now I understand most everything, expect maybe for a few words here and there. At one point he asked me, "what do you gain from coming to Romania as a volunteer?" This was a whopper for me to explain in Romanian, but in the end I got my point across. I tried to explain to him that the idea behind the PC is to promote frienship between America and the rest of the world. I also told him that my object wasn't something concrete; it's more like I was interested in seeing another part of the world, experiencing new things, meeting new people, forming friendships, etc. Sometimes locals find it hard to comprehend why someone would come to Romania. It would seem that such individuals think that Romania is the armpit of Europe, and when I tell them that I don't get paid, they look at me like I'm stupid. I guess they're thinking the experience is nothing but a loss if there's no financial or material gain. While I was explaining to Tibi why the Peace Corps is a good thing, I was worried he might counter me with such a mentality. However, not only was he very accepting of my reasons, but he seemed to completely empathize.

As we continued to pick grapes, Tibi expressed his desire to learn some English. I took the opportunity to turn the tables and began talking to him in English, followed by Romanian translations of what I had said. Eventually he decided the langauge was too frustrating, and wanted to stop. So, I asked him to teach me some Hungarian, which I've heard is an extremely hard language. I came to discover what they say isn't just a rumor. After about fifteen minutes of attempting to pronounce egészségedre ("to your health"), my brain hurt too much to continue. He and his mother kept laughing at me because apparently I was saying egész seggedre, which basically translates to "to your ass!" It took me a while to percieve the difference in pronounciation between the two words, in fact I'm still not completely sure about it. Every time I thought I was starting to get the hang of it, they'd point out my failure. Nothing I said seemed to be right. Tibi’s mother kept repeating, "Nem seggedre! ségedre. Ha ha ha." No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to differentiate the e sound from the é sound. I was completely frustrated, but I kept mulling it over and every half an hour or so I'd say it out loud again to see if I had pronounced it correctly. Most of the time their laughter confirmed my suspicions. Just goes to show you how a minor change in inflection can make all the difference between toasting someone's health or their rear-end.

Click below for some pictures from the weekend:

This past weekend I went to the Szekszard Wine Festival. The city of Szekszard, located in Southern Hungary, is known for its wine (by the way, "sz" in Hungarian is pronounced like an "s" in English). I traveled in a minibus with about 20 people from Lugoj; a group of kids from the Lugoj Kid's Club had been invited to perform at the festival (and I was invited to tag along).

We arrived after about 6 hours, ate lunch and were shown around town by some of the locals. We were even given a private tour of the history museum--I didn't understand what the curator said, but luckily a couple people in our group spoke Hungarian and could translate into Romanian.

The official opening of the festival was held later that evening in the main town square. They had a showcase of traditional Hungarian dancing on a large stage. I was impressed how the women danced with decanters of wine on their heads, and the men clapped, stomped and slapped their boots in time. The rhythmic effect of the men stomping and pounding was quite powerful. I liked the music too, mostly violin and acoustic bass.

The next day we went to a function at the town hall. All the local officials were out, wearing cloaks (traditional costume I suppose). Speeches were given, and then an important-looking man took a glass and went over to the fountain in front of the town hall. He put his glass up to the spicket, turned it on and--get this-- out poured red wine! In fact there were two spickets on the fountain, one for red wine, the other for white. Glasses were handed out to everyone there, and we obligingly filled them. Imagine that, a wine fountain!

After that, there was a long parade down the main street. All the local wine producers were represented, along with all the schools, several organizations and many dance troupes. I was also surprised to see the mayor of Lugoj marching in the procession! Like us, he was an invited guest (probably because Szekszard and Lugoj have some economic partnerships).

Later on the second day, our kids performed. One group did a breakdance routine, the other was a rock band; they were both really good. By the time their acts were over, it was cold and we were all very hungry. We had meal tickets for one particular restaurant, which had set up a tent amidst all the wine tents. The only problem was that we had to sit outside. But I, for one, was too hungry to care; I ate despite the icy mist and stinging breeze. Luckily, the food was very good (turkey shish-kebabs, a pork cutlet, french fries and a sour cream sauce with cucumber, onion, and garlic). And, for a little added warmth, we drank hot mulled wine.

On the morning of the third day the kids performed once more. Next to the stage was a kiosk selling candies, so I took the opportunity to buy a few things. I bought some honey biscuits/cookies, some dianas cukorka candies (pronounced "deeoh-nash tzookorko," which are filled with a cough-syrup sort of liquid) and some krumplicukor (a hard white block; I was told it's a mixture of sugar and potatoes-- kind of disappointing as it turned out).

All in all, it was an interesting experience. Not only did I get to see another part of Hungary and bond with some of my fellow Lugojeans, but I also got a bottle of Szekszard wine!

See all the pictures HERE

Primul Clopotel. It means, "the first bell," and is the ceremony that marks the start of a new school year.

This morning was gloomy and damp, but the rain held off just long enough for the ceremony to take place in the school courtyard. In attendance were all the teachers, the students (including the trembling hordes of 9th graders), the principal, the mayor (who just last year was the school's principal, but ran for office and won), a few graduates from last year, several parents, and numerous other important community members.

There was a blessing given by an Orthodox priest. Then came a speech by the principal, followed by the mayor's speech (coincidentally the same speech he gave last year when he was principal) and another speech I couldn't hear or understand because the speaker was talking too softly. The main focus of the ceremony was the pairing of the new 9th graders with their class teachers (dirigintii).

The ninth grdae, like other grades, is split into 5 different sections (9A, 9B, 9C, 9D, 9E). Each section specializes on a certain subject. For example, 9A focuses on mathematics and information technologies, 9C is a section for students who study sciences, 9D is the bilingual section (they have an intensive focus on English), and 9E is for the German-speaking students (several of their subjects are taught in German).

At the ceremony, each of the groups of 9th graders gathered behind their respective diriginte. This person acts sort of like the class's "home-room" teacher from the time their freshmen until they graduate. Thus the diriginte and their class tend to become quite close; the matching of a class with a diriginte that takes place at the opening of the school year is the start of a long relationship.

After the opening ceremony, all classes met with their diriginti for an hour or so. Then, the teachers met in the meeting room for a general start-of-the-schoolyear meeting. Classes officially start tomorrow, but I still don't have a schedule, nor do I know which classes I'll be teaching. The same thing happened last year-- school began with a chaotic bang. Everything was so new and confusing, and I wasn't even sure what classes I was teaching or when for the first few weeks. I was so stressed out by all the uncertainty and seeming chaos. Now, a year later, I realize this is just how they do things here. Rather than preparing everything before school starts, they sort of figure it out as they go. Which certainly is a different approach than what I remember from school in the States. But, that's all it is--different--not neccessarily better or worse. So, tomorrow I'll go to school and just go with the flow; I know things will be worked out in the end.

It's hard to believe that today essentially marks the start of my second half of Peace Corps service. I feel prepared for what lies ahead, with a year of experience under my belt and a better understanding of how things work. In fact, after a summer of sleeping in, I think the biggest challenge I face right now is re-training my body to get up in the morning.

Spor la treaba to all my students and colleagues!

I just found out about the recent death of Iosif Constantin Dragan--Romania's wealthiest man. He was born in Lugoj, and studied in Bucharest. He moved to Italy after the Communists rose to power. Not only was he a businessman, but he also wrote some controversial historical works. His legacy includes a University in Lugoj, several newspapers and the gas distribution company Butan Gas.

I happened to stumble upon his obituary, "Romanian Billionaire Buried in Transylvania," while reading through google news articles about Romania. (despite what the article indicates, Lugoj is not technically in Transylvania, nor is it even remotely close to central Romania).

The past month has been a blur. It seems like most of it was spent traveling or hosting people, and my bank account certainly shows it. But, the highlight of it all was my family’s visit, even if it was too short. My mother, brother and nephew arrived in Budapest on the 16th. It had been over a year since I’d seen them. It was comforting to see that little has changed (except, of course, my nephew Evan had grown quite a bit. I’m proud of how brave he was and how well he handled the experience).

After their arrival, we hung out in Budapest for a day and a half, and were given a high-speed, super-condensed tour of the city by a local American ex-pat that happened to make Jack’s acquaintance. After Budapest, we took a train to Timisoara, went out to dinner with a few of the local PCVs and stayed the night. Next, it was on to Lugoj, our final destination. I introduced my family to some of my local friends (at least the ones who weren’t away on vacation). We were treated to typical Romanian hospitality (which is never short of amazing) and had several wonderful meals.

We spent a few days in Lugoj, cozily crammed into my apartment, after which we had to head back to Budapest. Their flight back home was on the 23rd, so we went back to Budapest on the 22nd, stayed the night and caught a little more sight-seeing in the morning with the same guy that had showed us around the first time. Then I went with them to the airport and said goodbye. It’s too bad I didn’t get to show them more of Romania; they were here for such a brief visit. But, at least they did get to see the important parts—my stomping grounds, my everyday life. In any case, it was just nice spending time with them.

So, it's been quite some time since I've written here. Here are a few noteworthy items:

About two weeks ago I hosted a Jazz group from NYC in my apartment. They were on an Eastern European tour, which included stops in Estonia, Poland, Slovakia, The Czech Republic, Hungary, and Romania. They ended up coming my way because the drummer is a friend of my colleague in Sighisoara, and she referred them to me. I ended up hooking them up with a gig in a little bar here in Lugoj. It went off quite well. They played for practically no money (we just passed around a hat so that people could throw in some money if they wished). The members of the band were really cool guys, too (check out their website, Catapults and Parachutes).

The following Saturday I was visited by the 'big boss,' the country director of the Peace Corps program in Romania. He was passing through Lugoj on his way to a meeting in Arad, so he picked me up and we went out to dinner in Timisoara. I then tagged along for the meeting, an assembly of the VAC (Volunteer Advisory Committee). VAC is composed of a group of PCVs who discuss issues and policies that affect the volunteer community; they act as an intermediary body between the volunteers and the administrative staff. It was interesting to sit in on the meeting (well, some of it anyway). One of the big issues that was discussed was the PC budget crisis. With the devaluation of the US dollar, the Peace Corps has lost about $8.5 million. To deal with this, posts around the world will have to tighten their belts. Some posts have actually decided to close down altogether. PC Romania certainly isn't closing, but we're not yet sure how this whole thing will affect day-to-day life here at post. The other interesting thing about the meeting was that the VAC members used Skype to communicate with VAC members and country directors from other posts in the area (such as Ukraine, Moldova and Bulgaria). It was interesting to see how our programs differ, and also what we have in common. It seems we're all dealing with the same sorts of issues, more or less. As in Romania, depression seems to be an issue that volunteers from both Ukraine and Moldova are dealing with. Also, several of the people spoken to mentioned their concerns about keeping PC relevant in Eastern Europe-- their approach seemed to involve sending volunteers to smaller, less-served communities (something we're trying to focus on here in Romania as well).

The VAC meeting was hosted at a natural park in Arad (Parcul Natural Lunca Muresului). The park is on the banks of the Mures river and the grounds themselves are quite peaceful. The facilities at their eco-turism center include scientific labs, a conference room and even guest bedrooms. They also rent out canoes and kayaks. Some of us took the opportunity to go for a 25km canoe ride down the river, which was certainly the highlight of the meeting for me.

After the VAC meeting I came back to Lugoj. Martin's family was visiting, so I went over to his place to visit. We watched a movie and then went out to dinner. The decision was to go to the most expensive restaurant in town, where we ate, guess what.....steak! I had almost given up all hope of finding decent steak in Romania, but it turns out it's been right here in Lugoj the whole time. I was so excited about it that I thought it merited a mention here.

last Friday I went down to Ploiesti to meet the new trainees and give a short presentation. I met up with my buddy Zach down there, and we traveled back to Lugoj together. Our plan was to storm Belgrade for two short days. However, someone forgot their passport in Sibiu, so we had to scrap that (In fact, in light of recent events in Belgrade --see here-- perhaps it's best we didn't go). Instead we ended up going to Hunedoara to visit the Hunyadi Castle (aka Castelul Corvinilor, www.castelulcorvinilor.ro) It was extremely well-preserved and quite impressive.

Well, I think that about brings us up to date. It seems like I've been on the move for a while. Indeed, tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Timisoara to check out the new Batman movie. We'll see how that is.

...And so do the potter's wheels at Clubul Copiilor in Lugoj.

A group of Danes arrived this Monday for a ceramics camp, which is being hosted by Clubul Copiilor (The Kid's Club). One of the Danes is Ole, a fellow I've mentioned before. He's had connections in Lugoj for years, mainly through the orphanages. For the past few years he's been organizing this ceramics camp in conjunction with Clubul Copiilor, and this year I'm participating, since I'm here.

Activities last until next Friday. We have two potter's wheels, two kilns, a variety of clays and about 20 kids. I've already made a clay whistle, a candle-holder and three bowls. Next week we'll experiment with a special method known as Raku (we had to build a third, wood-burning kiln just for the Raku pieces). Its been fun so far. I'll have to post pictures of the things I've made when they're finished.

In other news, I just got word that some of my family is coming to visit! My mother, brother and nephew will be visiting August 16th-23rd. I'm really glad they're taking the opportunity to come while I'm here. I think it's important they see a little of what life is like here so that they can better understand my experience. I've often thought that I haven't seen my family or friends in over a year now. It would be a shame if we were out of touch for two years; so much can change in that time. Of course we think of each other, and we talk on the phone or AIM, but I feel like we still don't really know what's happening in each other's lives. In a way, their lives are going on as usual, but my lifestyle and experiences have changed quite a bit. I think I have some idea of what they're going through on a daily basis. Their lives probably aren't terribly different from what I remember. At least I can draw from my memories to imagine what's happening back home, but the folks on the home-front don't have any mental conceptualization of my life as it is now. I mean, how can they without actually seeing it? That's why I'm happy they're coming. If they didn't, I'd return home and the disconnect would be all too apparent--they'd have Mike back, but they'd also notice a blind-spot the size of two years. What exactly happened during his time in Romania? What exactly did he do? Where did he live? What sorts of people did he meet? Did he take his vitamins? (or at least that's how I envision it).

I was finishing up at school today when I got a call from a phone number I didn't recognize:

"hello?"

"Mike, it's Tibi. Remember you said a while back that you'd like to help out at the village?"

"yeah..."

"well, I'm leaving now, do you still want to come?"

"uhhh, ok. (I would have preferred a little more notice) I can be ready in 30 minutes."

So we met half an hour later, and drove off to the village of Tipari (pronounced 'Tseepar'). Tibi grew up in the village, and his mother still lives there. The village was once exclusively Hungarian, but many Hungarian families left after the Revolution. However, Tibi's family remained and they still strongly identify with their Hungarian roots. In fact, I was greeted at the door with a bowl of paprikash, bread and home-made sour cream.

I was wearing shorts, so Tibi's mom found me a pair of her husband's old pants for me to borrow. They were about 3 sizes to big around the waist, so I used a bungee chord to cinch them tight. We loaded up the cart, attached it to the tractor and headed out to the fields. Sitting in the back of the cart, I waved to Tibi's mom as we exited the gate. But, she didn't wave back. Instead, she made a sign like "no no, hang on, I'm coming with you guys." And sure enough, she closed the gate, and jumped on the tractor.

So, we were off like a hurd of turtles. The sun was shining brightly. I bounced around in the back of the cart as we made our way down the dirt path. When we arrived at the first field, I noticed that the grass had been cut, and was laying in rows. I soon found out that our job was to flip the piles so the hay so they could dry out in the sun (it had rained the day before). We got to it, and nearly immediately the storm clouds rolled in. Just our luck, right?

We decided to keep going, in spite of the threatening skies. We saw bolts of lightning to the south, and felt the occasional drop of rain. But, nevertheless, we kept going. Sure enough, our persistence paid off, because the storm passed just to the south (but it was still pretty overcast, so it didn't seem like the hay would dry out very quickly). We moved on to the next field and did the same. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance.

The scenery was really nice. We had a lovely view of the mountains to the east. At one point I stopped to just look around and get my bearings. I pointed and called to Tibi, "this way is west?" He said, "yeah, everywhere you want to go is that way." I thought for a moment, 'that way is home...I wonder what my family and friends are doing right now...'

The sky cleared just in time for the sun to begin setting. It was about 7:30pm. We were nearly done with the 3rd field. The field was on a hill, and we were working on one side of it. Little did I know that there was another group working on the opposite side. As we reached the top, we met the other group. I found out it was Tibi's uncle, aunt and cousins. They all started speaking in Hungarian, and, for a second, I forgot I was in Romania.

By 8:30 we had finished the 3rd field. We went back to the first field to see if the hay had dried out enough to load on the cart, but alas, no. So we just went home. Once back at the house I ate some cherries, bread and sour cream. After I went out in the yard to pick visine (sour cherries, pronounced 'veesheenay'). I stayed out till 9:40 or so-- gotta love the long daylight hours!

I left Tipari by 10, after a good day's work, with visine-stained hands and a bottle of fresh milk given me by Tibi's mom.

Today was the 12th annual Concordia Cup, hosted by Clubul Concordia, Lugoj. It took place just outside town, near a village called Poganesti. There were nearly 70 participants (a new record) and they were from all over Romania. I volunteered to help out with the organization, and was assigned to check-point 2, which was the half-way point of the trail. It was a lot of fun, and luckily the weather held out until the very end (when we were cleaning up it started to rain).

More pictures can be found HERE

Later that evening, after the bike race, I went to the center of town with Martin (a Danish guy living in town, and my pseudo-sitemate).

The attraction was a new giant LED screen that they had recently installed in front of the Lugoj 'House of Culture' (Casa de Cultura), which is a sort of performance hall. The Euro 2008 football championship is on, and here in Lugoj they're using the big screen to show the matches-- quite a cool idea (better than 24/7 adverts). They set up a beer garden in front of the screen so that people can watch the games in comfort. Tomorrow night is Romania vs. France, so I expect the whole town th show up.

Here are some pics of this new-fangled contraption:

The new monstrosity

A closer view

The beer garden they set up in front of the screen

Martin

my new-old bike

Last week I was talking to one of the physics teachers at school, and I happened to mention to him that I've been looking for a second-hand bike, something not too expensive. Without a moment's hestitation he said, "I have an old bike at home that I don't use anymore. You can borrow it for as long as you need." What a sweet deal! A free bike! Almost too good to be true. In fact he had his son bring the bike to the school that very same day so I could see it and decide if I wanted it.

It hadn't been used in a few years, but it was still in pretty good shape. In fact it was quite a beauty for a free bike, complete with white-wall tires, shiny white fenders, a dynamo-powered lighting system, and a bell (certainly a cruiser). It's a Motobecane 'Mont Blanc,' circa early 90's. The tires hold air, and everything is in decent working order (except the rear derailleur needs some adjustment, but luckily I know a mechanic at the bike shop in town).

I took the bike on a little trip today to a colleague's home on the edge of town. She has a huge garden, full of onions, tomatoes, potatoes, peas, peppers, celery, carrots, squash, cherries AND strawberries. Strawberries! Needless to say, I spent most of my time picking the strawberries (one in the basket, two in the mouth).

On the topic of bikes, there's a big mountain bike race just outside town tomorrow. It's being put on by the outdoor club in Lugoj, Clubul Concordia, and I'm meeting them early in the morning to help set it up. I hope to take some pictures...

Its been about a year since I've done any serious running, apart from the sprinting I did in the Budapest station to catch the train to Krakow. A lot of my habits changed when I came to Romania, and I guess running wasn't one to make the cut.

However, I resolved today to reclaim this habit (especially since the weather has started to be so nice here). For the past few days I had given some thought to where I could run; Lugoj is not exactly an ideal town for runners. At first I was a bit shy about running, since I don't often see people jogging around town. Secondly, I had always been warned about stray dogs chasing runners, which made me a tad nervous.

So I thought, where might I go to avoid the dogs? My first idea was the park, where it is shaded, and relatively devoid of big dogs. However, it's sort of small, often crowded, and the paths are paved in asphalt, which I don't really prefer. Then, I thought about running along the banks of the river, which is fairly scenic and also has some shady spots. But, I wasn't sure about the dog situation, and the sidewalks are concrete. Next, I thought about running in the cemetery, which is rather large and has a wall surrounding it. I thought perhaps the wall would make it a fairly dog-safe area, but then I thought that if people noticed me running around the cemetery, they might be offended, or at least they'd think I was nuts.

Then, finally, it hit me. I knew there was a soccer stadium on the outskirts of town, but I had never seen what it was like inside. It looks rather dilapidated from outside, so I just assumed that it was closed and abandoned. But, I decided to go check it out today, to see if there might be a way to get inside. I nearly walked around the whole thing, trying to find an entrance. There were walls around the entire field and couldn't really see inside. But, I heard noises, and every so often I caught a glimpse of a soccer ball as it arced high enough for me to see it over the wall. So, I knew the stadium couldn't, in fact, be closed. I trotted around a corner, and came to a doorway. Once inside, I was stunned. Not only were there tons of people playing soccer or practicing, but there was also something else--a one-lane dirt track around the entire perimeter of the field! It was perfect! So I happily jogged a few laps just to see how out of shape I was. I typically prefer trail running, but I'll take what I can get, even if it's flat and lacking shade. In any case, it was good (both physically and mentally) to get some exercise.

This past weekend has been a blast. The Lugoj Beer festival kicked off Friday afternoon and hasn't quit yet.

Coming home from school on Friday I discovered a crowd obstructing the street near the entrance to my apartment. They were surrounding a musical duo dressed like Native Americans. One of them was playing a drum, the other a flute. I'd actually seen these guys several times before, the first time was in Ploiesti. Apparently they are from Ecuador and make a living by performing at festivals throughout Romania. They are ok, if you listen to them in moderation. But, considering they've been playing right below my apartment for nearly the whole weekend, I've become quite sick of their repertoire. What makes it more annoying is that they only have five or so songs that they play in the exact same order every time. But enough about that...

Merrymaking was aided by beer, mici, all sorts of grilled food, beer, cotton candy, ice cream, kurtos kalacs (a sort of Hungarian/Transylvanian pastry), more beer and.... GOULASH (my favorite).

I went to a BBQ at someone's home Saturday afternoon, after which I attended the much-anticipated (at least by me) goulash competition. There were at least 5 teams, mostly from Hungary. I happened to time my arrival just so that I could sneak into the cooking space before they closed it to the public. So, there I was with all the cooks and judges. I asked one of the cooks if I could take his picture, and in return he offered me a taste of the goulash. After that, I went around and tasted each pot, which was great fun. Some of the chefs spoke only Hungarian. But, using universally-recognized culinary sign-language (a smile and pat of the belly), I was able to communicate my appreciation of their work.

After the judges announced the winning goulash, bowls of the stuff were given to the crowd -- and the best part was that it was totally free!

That night they had some Romanian folk bands perform, and today was more of the same (including the same songs by that South American group). I took a break from it all by walking to the outskirts of town. Passing the tennis courts, I ran into a colleague from school, so I hung out to watch him and his friends play tennis. Next time I'll wear my sneakers and play with them.

This evening they have some rock bands playing on the stage. I've just returned after watching a Romanian blues band (called The Timis Blues Band, I think). They're pretty good, and quite refreshing compared to the typical rock/pop played on the radio in Romania. As I type this, I can hear the music of another band, called Directie 5, emanating from the stage. One of the nice things about living directly in the center of town is that I'm right where the action is (of course, this isn't always a good thing...see above example concerning South American band).

Right now I'm just waiting for the fireworks, which are scheduled for midnight.

If you'd like to see pictures from this weekend, go here

Well, I'm back in Romania after a trip to Budapest and Krakow.

Click on the slideshows below to open the albums

In Budapest we stayed at a 'boat hotel' on the Danube, saw a show at the National Opera, viewed a great Medici/Renaissance art exhibit at the history museum, met up with some fellow PCVs, perused the huge market building, ate at the finest restaurants, swam in the famous baths and walked...A LOT.

Budapest:

We almost missed the train to Krakow because of a misunderstanding about the tickets. However, in the end, we resolved the issue and got off alright (with 20 minutes left before departure I sprinted to the ticket office, pleaded to cut in front of the throngs of impatient travelers, threw some money to the ticket lady, grabbed the corrected tickets--without waiting for change--and hustled back, arriving out of breath but happy to be able to board the train). After getting in early the next morning, we headed straight to the bus station and took a maxi taxi to Oswiecim (aka Auschwitz), which was a sobering experience. In Krakow itself we enjoyed the lively street scenes, visited Collegium Maius, walked to Nowa Huta (stopping on the way for an impromptu picnic consisting of a granola bar and yogurt), saw a chamber concert in Saints Peter and Paul church, ate potato pancakes at a milk bar, sampled pierogies that my father would die for, and toured nearly every square inch of the old city, with its castle and numerous old churches (Krakow has 142, which I believe is a higher concentration than anywhere outside Rome...though Nanticoke, PA is probably also pretty high on that list).

Krakow:

On Saturday I was visiting Timisoara with Kirstin (a volunteer from the area), and we happened upon a pile of garbage on the side of the road. It immediately appeared more interesting than your typical trash heap, containing a very old television, a number of old books, and lots of communist-era newspapers.

We walked over to it, and rummaged through some of the books. There were a couple 1974 Dacia owner's manuals (Dacia is a Romanian car company), there was a school notebook from the 60's, and a rather unassuming piece of folded cardboard.

Kirstin picked up the board and dusted it off to reveal red block letters that spelt "Capitaly." What could this be? She unfolded it, and discovered board was in fact a game, a Monopoly knock-off! The railroad company was CFR (Romania's train company). All the real estate spaces were famous parks and streets in Romania. Instead of Jail, there was a psychiatric ward. When passing "start," the player would be paid the equivalent of something like a few cents in today's money.

It was quite an interesting find. Kirstin decided to keep the board. It's funny to think that perhaps people were playing this game during communism. Perhaps they modified the rules so that the one who 'wins' would automatically be forced to redistribute his wealth among the rest of the players (thus the game would never end!). We joked about making up rules about food rationing, collectivization of property and nationalization of businesses.

I did a google search on 'Capitaly,' and found out it was originally a Hungarian take on Monopoly. This particular board, however, was a Romanian version.