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Some of the best things in life are the unexpected. During my time in Romania, I have learned how to throw plans out the window and fly by the seat of my pants. Being unprepared does not settle well with me for I do not excel when put on the spot. But at some point, I had to realize that you can't always be prepared for life...there's always going to be that element of surprise. Awkwardness

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Life is a lot like walking through the streets of Campulung...if you focus on tip-toeing through all the shit on the ground, you miss the beauty all around.

Recently, David Sasaki from Rising Voices, the organization that funded our Blogging The Dream project came to visit Cȃmpulung Moldovenesc. He met with some of the blogging participants and furthered their technological experience; teaching them how to interview someone and then make a video. The highlight for me (and my parents who were here visiting) was observing the "democratic" voting

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The Go Girl. If you live in Romania, you’ll love it. Are you tired of paying 1 Leu to use a Turkish toilet that you just can’t seem to master? Sick of verifying that your tetanus shot is up to date before using the train toilet? Fed up with that desire to emerge yourself into a large vat of antibacterial hand sanitizer after using those rare existing public bathrooms? Well fret no more; you too can now pee standing up! Why let the boys and drunks have all the fun? Get a Go Girl and make your dreams of playing swords and watering nature’s landscape come true!

http://www.go-girl.com/

As a lucky recipient of a Go Girl (thanks to my Godmother), I can’t wait to make an impact or shall I say, a release, in my squatting style. Thus far, I’ve performed the recommended practice round in the privacy of my home. However, I think I might do it again…perhaps it feels a little more natural the second time. When I went for the prerequisite practice round, I hesitated a moment as I faced the toilet standing up…”so, do I lift the toilet seat?” I shrug my shoulders and figure it would probably be for the best. Now…”what do I do with my pants?” I reluctantly pushed them along with my underwear down to the ground. Next… I lifted the coned apparatus to my lady bits hoping to find that so called suction I read about in the directions. No such luck; the suction does NOT exist. This is definitely a two handed job. No longer able to contain my full bladder, I began the flow and drained my lizard (something I’ve always wanted to say.) “Hmmm,” I thought,” this isn’t too bad.” Maybe next time I won’t wait until urination nation is inside my body, for the Go Girl appeared to be having a little difficulty keeping up with the flow of things. Otherwise, it was a success. Once I figure out how to push my clothing aside (rather than to my ankles) as suggested, I’ll be ready to go public. After washing up and heading into my room, I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror. What in Sam’s hell? How in the world did that large wet spot get on the back of my pants? As I changed clothing, I replayed the entire situation in my mind. Where did I go wrong? Why do all the drunks have their wet spots on the front? Maybe I should seek counsel; who better than Grandma? She raised 5 boys! She’s bound to know! Until then, I will continue the Moving Hover Craft Method for trains and the Annie Oakley: Roll & Shoot for Turkish times.

Who knew there could be something more esthetically pleasing than the bold crisp tree colorings of Fall or the freshly frosted landscape of Winter? Clearly the combination of both trumps all. Yesterday’s downpours morphed into flakes and by morning Cȃmpulung was lightly dusted in snow. It was actually quite surreal to the human eye; it appeared as if someone let down a life-size backdrop. In the forefront, were bright radiant colors but as your gaze moved slowly uphill, the oranges, yellows and red were sprinkled white. Further up the foothills and mountains, the still green grass had been primped with an untainted carpet and the endless pines were perfectly frosted. For me, it was the ultimate beauty, the best of both worlds – Fall at your feet, unified splendor at your eye and Winter within reach.

Out of the various projects that I have assisted with this summer, one memory in particular sticks out. While working on the project in which we collaborated with the Mormon Church, we had to wade through a lot of bureaucracy and experienced a ridiculous amount of inefficiency in the lacking infrastructure. One day after running around in the same circle several times, the Romanian woman with whom I was working, turned to me and said, “You know…I finally understand why people from other countries are here trying to help us.” For me, that made everything we had done well worth while because not once in the 19 months that I’ve been here has one person genuinely understood why I am here; not to mention why I would choose to leave my family, country, etc. Although it had never really been a personal goal of mine (to make technical changes or cure the lacking infrastructure), it was one of the better experiences I’ve had in the “work” place.

There’s something invigorating about a chilly overcast autumn morning when you’re able to sit on a porch drinking a fresh cup of coffee while simply pondering aimlessly. The light breeze through the trees and overall serenity take me back to cabin life…and all at once…I’m a bit homesick. I yearn for those long weekends at the cabin; where days are spent on the lake with margarita breaks and playing Screw Your Neighbor with grandma, and nights around the bonfire, roasting marshmallows and watching the stars above. Generally speaking, all activities you can do almost anywhere in the world but make all the difference when done not just anywhere but at home.

Regardless of how much you enjoy something, someone, somewhere…it can become too much. Living in a foreign place amongst different mentalities, methods and processes is beyond fascinating but every now and then, all those constant reminders that you don’t belong stack up too high and come tumbling down.

And on that note…I’m anxiously awaiting the arrival of my parents next week. They couldn’t be coming at a better time. I’m hoping that experiencing a little piece of home will recharge my batteries for the next 8 months but sometimes I merely miss the natural familiarity of home…the automatic comfort you experience by simply knowing what’s going on around you. Either way, I haven’t seen my mom and dad in the flesh for over a year… what if it’s weird? What if things aren’t the same anymore? What if we don’t have anything to talk about – will the long silences be awkward? Fortunately, these flashes of panic are slashed by the pure excitement and the warmth that will soon envelop my heart. The anticipation has reached its max and has left me in a glass cage of emotions. And back to the original thought spurred by mushroom hunting…

At what point do we lose touch with nature? When do we begin to ignore the organic in order to replace it with the synthetic? Where along the life spectrum does the turning point occur? I suppose the easy answer comes down to time and money. Advantageous aspects indeed but something is lost…more than knowledge, more than survival instinct…we lose that mystical yet spiritual connection with the earth, that puts us back into our place as a small figment of the world, where in reality, we don’t really matter and thus, neither do any of our problems.

Spending my summers in northern Minnesota I considered myself to have a fairly decent grasp on wilderness wit. However, as soon as I began venturing out with Romanians – I was quickly proven otherwise - time and time again. Apparently, you can eat everything. Little did I know, I shouldn’t eat before I go hiking for there are berries, leaves, apples, mushrooms, pears, things that look like berries, plums and tree sap to ingest. Although a bit hesitant at first, I put my life into their hands. How else is one suppose to fully immerse themselves culturally? Unless there is a slow release toxin, I have survived all the outings thus far. The only minor exception was with the tree sap. Word on the street is that once sap has sat out (or stuck onto the tree) long enough, you can chew it like gum. Regrettably, my wad hadn’t sat out quite long enough. The bitter stickiness created a lock-jaw sensation between my top and bottom teeth. Despite how many other berry things or leaves I ate, my sap continued to double as an oral adhesive and that foul taste persisted. I refrained from swallowing any of it for if actual gum stays in your stomach for 7 years, can you imagine how long this gooey matter would remain?

Weeks later, I finally had my break…I found something we could eat…the Honeysuckle.

How does something you’ve seen so many times before and have become immune to, suddenly strike you? Homeless, beggars, huffers and drunkards; I have observed that they truly do come in all shapes, forms and sadly, ages throughout Romania. Although, I can now walk by out of habit – because there simply is no possible way to help everyone – the hardest demographic to take in were the huffers, especially the adolescents. Perhaps the initial urge to gawk was because it was new, something I had never seen before but as soon as I saw the 10 year old kids, I was staring out of concern. However, like anything else, once you’ve seen or done something enough, you become immune. I had grown particularly impervious to the huffers around Gara de Nord after seeing one morph into Chuck Norris and judo kick an adult drunkard in the back. A semi-playful pursuit continued amongst this small group and somehow, my aunt and cousin (who had only been in the country visiting for 2 days and were experiencing huffers for the first time), as well as myself, became the “safe” barricade to hide behind. Since then, I’ve further distanced myself (also due to increase of summer odors) and still wondered from afar…how long can they survive like this?

But then it hit me. I was no longer under the spell of Mr. Miyagi. Happy to be leaving București after a prolonged stay, I was not bothered by the rush of city life that I’ve become intimidated by and enjoyed my evening walk to the train station. Pondering, most likely useless things, such as how it will be much cooler in Cȃmpulung, the probability of me not having to pee in the next 10 hours, and whether or not my 5 other bunkmates on the train will be snorers; I approached Gara de Nord relatively untroubled. That’s when I saw a body laying on the ground in front of the entrance. Again, something to which I’ve grown accustomed and is no longer a big ado. His friend, having a huffing bag in one hand, used her other in attempt to either awaken or move him and occasionally pulling up his pants that revealed the perpetual plumber butt. Venturing closer, I noticed the ground around his head was wet from his perspiration but the teenage huffer was out, he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I’m not certain if it was his youth, the empty look in his “helper’s” eyes, people literally stepping over him or simply witnessing the epitome of life that I gratefully will never know but my response was not only emotional. It captured me physically, I honestly felt it heart and soul – the blood drained from my face, the world around me became discombobulated and I broke out in a cold sweat. Other than those occasional morning dehydrations, this type of reaction has only happened to me once before…when I saw grandpa nearly paralyzed in the hospital after falling off the dock. Seeing the most physically fit and active 82 year old man you’ll ever meet, entirely incapacitated was not only devastating but a revelation of my existence – if the one person that I thought could do it all, in fact, cannot…who can? I couldn’t imagine why my body chose that time to react in such a manner for I had seen far worse, including death. And again yesterday at the station, why that particular huffer? For whatever reason it may be, I’m going to take it as a stern personal reminder that not one of is invincible. Not even Chuck Norris.

After the disgruntling pageant loss of 2004, I realized that my answer “and to solve world peace” had been amiss. In fact, it had never been the right answer. Although it’s always been the default response in the interview portion, I’ve never truly believed in this mentality or even considered it to be a logical approach to life. So when I finally hankered down and opted to commit myself to applying for the Peace Corps, I knew my motivation was not to solve world peace.While I have never even been remotely close to participating or interacting within the Beauty Pageant domain, and perhaps slightly exaggerate my experiences to further get my point across, I really am an honest person. Volunteering has taught and/or provided me with the opportunities to learn much of what I know, as well as greatly contributing to my even-keeled sanity (which I suppose is up for debate). Regardless, I’m a firm believer in:“Helping someone else is the secret to happiness.” - Booker T. Washington And “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” – Gandhi Thus, joining the Peace Corps was indeed another opportunity to serve others and hopefully be able to have a positive influence on at least one other person in some way or another. However, my true inspiration was for the opportunity to live amongst another culture. I’m not sure how my fascination of observing people (nothing creepy) began but I can genuinely people watch for hours. People are astounding morsels of existence that surrender to the society in which they live. And… I simply can’t get enough.As I have perhaps alluded to before, I have not solved world peace (or at least not yet), probably haven’t provided much technical training or been of much help. But I realized that I’m okay with that. The cultural exchange has surpassed my expectations and has been more rewarding than I ever imagined. This, I recognize is self-serving, and kind of supports what I think almost any volunteer will tell you, that as an individual you gain much more than you give. However, I think the cross-cultural exchange and its positive effects that occur through Peace Corps are drastically overlooked. Never being a fan of missionary work, I was hesitant to join PC. Although we only serve in countries that make a request for our assistance, who are we to come in and change things around? But…by simply living amongst a foreign culture and working alongside them…there is much to be gained. You are introduced to entirely new mentalities, processes and an overall way of life. On both sides of the fence; myths, stereotypes and rumors are broken down…or even sometimes further enforced. Consequentially, you are able to provide living testimonies and share with others this new found information, whether you find it to be brilliant, efficient or ridiculously hilarious. Personally, I can’t think of or even fathom a better form of diplomacy. Except perhaps…World Peace.

Trekking through Maramureș was almost a fairy tale experience – it was like traveling back into time (or at least even further back into time than the Bucovina region). Although I finally spotted tractors versus the use of a scythe, the main road continuously led us through a plethora of remote villages, where life appeared to be at a standstill.

After our westbound departure from Cȃmpulung Moldovenesc, we attempted to pick up some additional students who live in other villages along the way to Cȃrlibaba. Unfortunately we were only successful in capturing a few others for a couple had to work (most likely in the fields or picking berries and mushrooms) and one was simply too tired after a 3 day wedding. Nevertheless, we had a van (almost) full of ecstatic kids and continued on through the Prislop Pass, who’s tightly wound bouncy mountainous roads served as a catalyst for what seemed like a non-stop puking rotation amongst the students for the next 36 hours.

We made a pit stop in Moisei to see a circular monument that was created to honor the 31 victims who were shot by Hungarian troops, who then also set fire to the entire village in 1944. One of most impressive wooden monasteries (Maramureș is known for its wooden structures, particularly churches) that we saw on this excursion was Bȃrsana Monastery. This religious compound only amplified the enchanting manner that the day had taken on. While the shingles were not made of peppermint candies nor the towers of licorice, I half expected Hansel and Gretel’esc like figures to come walking out. However, thinking back now, there was a poor little fawn named Bambi caged alongside a peacock. And speaking of licorice, I recently received an import of Twizzlers from my grandma that I brought along to share with the children. They thoroughly enjoyed them but they were like “what is this cauciuc (rubber) you’re feeding us?” Nevertheless, I was amused.

Weaving around căruțas, cows and bunici, our van ran parallel with the Ukrainian border until we reached our final destination, Săpȃnța. The attraction here being Cimitirul Vesel (the Merry Cemetery), where death isn’t so bleak and mourners are filled with hope. Since 1935, a village wood sculptor has donned each grave with a personalized carved cross displaying a painted picture and an etched limerick, providing a witty synopsis of their life. The painted blue crosses further embodied my magical experience; never before had I walked through a cemetery with such comfort and warmth in my heart. I must admit I have taken an uncanny interest in these life capturing grounds throughout this past year. Cemeteries provide you with a glimpse into the society in which it is located. Whether it is a historical, cultural or economical indicator, one can capture a foretaste of the people around.

Our last visit was to Muzeu al Gȃndirii Arestate (the Museum of Arrested Thought) that is housed in the former maximum security prison in the town of Sighetu Marmației. This museum was created “In memory of the young, intelligent people at the forefront of Romanian intellectual life who were imprisoned because they did not believe in communism and died, through torture, in this odious prison.” Walking through the cells that now display various aspects of the suffering that the communist regime caused was truly a sobering experience. The concept of eliminating a country’s intellectuals and filling higher leadership positions with the uneducated in order to secure power is honestly mind-boggling. Although I have been slowly piecing together the aftermath of communism in Romania, I am continuously astonished by the atrocities that were inflicted against their own people.

Additionally, having read Night, I was intrigued to discover that Sighet was the home of Elie Wiesel and also the place from which he was deported during WWII. It’s been fascinating (in a shocking manner) to learn that Romania use to have one of the largest Jewish populations in the world until then, when their many Jews and Gypsies were tortured, deported and sent to their deaths. The complexity of this country’s history has been utterly enthralling.

This excursion was part of a social integration project Traveling Beyond Barriers that I have been doing in collaboration with Centrul Școlar, a school for students with special needs, and Fundația Orizonturi, an NGO working with mental health service users. These individuals have limited resources and opportunities to explore their surroundings, let alone learn about the area in which they directly live. This project allows them to do so in an alternative learning environment amongst their community members. Traveling Beyond Barriers is not only helping improve the empowerment, education and health of the students and users but also invites the community to look beyond the stigmas that are so deeply ingrained in society.

I find that I do some of my best thinking while often walking aimlessly through the streets and surrounding foothills of Cȃmpulung Moldovenesc – but perhaps that’s just where I spend most of my time. At any rate, I left my beloved Bouse in search of an answer for my future but ended up attempting to fill the void that Alma left. Alma was my landlord’s dog and the only dog I’ve come to like in Romania. She’d often wait for me on my front steps and was always willing to spend some quality time when no one else was around. My landlord often flashed strange looks as we sat together on the cement steps – I never did find out if it was because he was concerned that I was going to freeze my ovaries or that I was simply spending time just sitting there with a dog. Nevertheless, the ole girl died last week and I’m going to miss our (instant hand-washing induced) time together.

I set out on the once half paved road, crossing over the eroded dirt road that has so many (now freshly rain filled) potholes that one can walk down it faster than any car, caruța or bike, and continued on to the main street (Calea Bucovinei that transitions into Calea Transilvaniei as it in fact heads west to Transylvania). As I rounded the corner, a glorious evening sun was peeking out after a day of rain and gloom that is always accentuated by the old Communist concrete structures that succeeded in defacing the center of this quaint logging town. Fortunately, the destruction didn’t spread much further than along the main drag. Just as an interesting side note (possibly only to myself) but I just learned that the Plateau, the large broken concrete square center, and the fountain next to it use to be the garden of the large house almost a block away. As a result of Communism, the owner was forced to give it all to the government and move elsewhere. Until recently, the house was abandoned with broken windows but the government is in the process of returning property all across the country to the rightful owners and this house being amongst those already returned is now being renovated by the owner.

So…as I was saying; I rounded that corner to meet the sun’s rays bouncing off Cȃmpulung’s new sparkling cobblestone sidewalks. It’s amazing what a difference a new sidewalk (or even just a sidewalk) can make. Only time will tell but as of now, on either side of the main street, there is no trace of garbage or animal code F’s (Code F for fecal matter, a little lifeguard lingo I picked up the summer I worked as a water slide attendant…Go…ok, go…yep, you too, go…I should probably attribute everything I know to Cascade Bay). Additionally, I’ve been noticing a new sporadic smattering of telephone booths on these freshly aligned stones. Logically, I guess that would make sense – obviously the immediate advantage of new sidewalks are the ability to obtain phone booths to promote communication within the community. However, in theory, this makes absolutely no sense because everyone here has a cell phone, if not 2 or 3. Now, when I say everyone, I mean everyone; Farmer Joe stops cutting his field with a scythe that he’ll later bring home strapped to his bicycle to take a call from Nurse Betty who can’t get a hold of their Son Sam because he is busy driving the horse drawn cart full of hay and texting his little ole Bunica, who is struggling to hear the message alert through her head scarf on the way to church. And that…is just one of the endless examples of the contradicting way of life that is found here.

Just when I opt to sit on some cement steps to obviously preserve my ovaries and start to ponder why Peace Corps is still in Romania, one of the 2 million stray dogs bites me in the ass and …humps me???!!! They even know when humans are in heat?? Disgusted and secretly amazed, I jumped up and immediately found refuge in the nearest telephone booth. Okay, I didn’t really, but the thought just occurred to me – I’ll have to keep that in mind for next month. Luckily my anticipated guest arrived with her leashed ex-vagabond pooch, so we were able to move onward but not of course without 3 vagabonds, including the humper, escorting us.

Soon after, I return home to the Bouse only to find yet another canine on the porch hiding under my drying laundry. Perhaps this (and Humpers McGee) is Alma telling me to not fill that void with another dog…hmm, perhaps a blonde fella (or so my latest card reading tells me). If only all the answers were in the cards. Maybe they are… but as an amateur, I’m left to sit here in my full fledge neon green Romo pajamas and contemplate if tomorrow will be the day I look for that new toilet seat.

Never before have I desired to read Dracula but I figured (as cliché as it is) that I probably should while in Romania. Much to my surprise, I’m glad I did…if not for the sole reason to see that Stoker had similar observations (even though he never stepped foot in Romania) of the land and people that I too am now experiencing. However, the astonishing part is that his were made over 100 years ago. Based on that statement, it would be all too easy to say that Romania has not progressed much but in reality, I’ve found that perhaps they are a people deeply rooted in tradition.

“We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things.” And indeed there shall. I also use this starting point as a disclaimer; observations do not determine the difference between right and wrong, they simply determine that “our ways are not your ways.”

“I find the district […] is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains, one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.” Bucovina is where I’m now a proud (possibly biased) resident and can confidently say is the most beautiful part of Romania. I believe it was named after the area’s beech (buche) forests after being annexed by the Habsburg Austrians in 1775. Coincidentally, I just finished reading Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History by Robert Kaplan, who also references this exact quote from Stoker to further describe Bucovina. I am in full agreement with Kaplan in that there is “this sensation of remoteness,” one that has brought an overwhelming yet refreshing calmness to my life.

“It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?” Actually, I think the trains are probably the more punctual form of transportation here. However, punctuality in general really isn’t something one dwells on so much, which is a nice change of pace for those of us who always seem to be running behind by five minutes. The sense of time has been one of those calming aspects but also a bit frustrating at times when you’ve been conditioned to the mentality of; “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.”

“I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting.” Superstitions, whether you believe in them or not, always seem to sneak in your life. Honestly, I’m a wood knocker. Can’t tell you why but you can be sure that I knock it. One of my favorite cultural aspects here has been learning about all the different superstitions, which I have slowly revealed in previous posts. They have been a great source of entertainment and to my advantage, they are endless.

“Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully present.” I don’t know why but there are indeed an abundance of goiters.

“You must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce.” Story of my life…or so it often seems. However, the tables may be turning. Like most houses here, my Bouse does not have screens. Not really a problem; as there aren’t too many bugs nor strange men that will crawl through a window. But! I’ve always had this silly little fear that cats would come in and maul me in my sleep. I agree that’s a bit ridiculous so as the temperatures have increased I’ve been a little more liberal in my window opening. The insects inside have been getting quite large. In fact, there was such a gianormous moth that I saw it poop as it fluttered to my light. Nevertheless, I wasn’t so silly after all. Not once but twice one of those little buggers (and by little bugger, I mean a life size feline) entered my Bouse. I suppose it’s better than when the squirrels were chewing through the screens (chewing and entry) in Highland Park; they weren’t exactly laying on my bed waiting for me to come home like these filthy felines. As long as were on the topic, taxidermy isn’t just for the hunted. Yes, this is a picture of a stuffed cat mounted on a house. There are “many strange things” indeed.

I remember the day I left like it was yesterday… After only two hours of sleep I was off to the airport at 4am with tear stained eyes and my entire family. Fortunately I had no more tears to cry as my breakdown three hours ago took every last drop; so I was left a bundle of nervous energy – the kind that makes you shake like you’ve drank too much coffee (not that I’ve ever done that.) And surprisingly, my three day old perm was no confident boost. A family friend at the airport helped grant my family “Military Access” so they could all come to the gate and wait with me. One of the security guards asked my sister which division I was in and her reply was one more of query, “Uh…the one that…uh...solves world peace?”

Since that departure, people have seemed to come in and out of my life at a much faster pace; yet we still managed to develop intimate relationships of understanding that will forever leave an impact on who I am. Some of these people I will stay in contact with but more than likely, I’ll never see the majority of them again. Perhaps it’s a result of getting older and going through more goodbyes or possibly the effect of emotional isolation over the past year or maybe neither one – either way, the goodbyes have not gotten any less disappointing but they have become more…I guess one could say, non-chalant. Meaning…less emotional, and perhaps less informal. Difficult to explain. Maybe at some point in your life you reach a particular limit and you become conditioned to think, “well, that’s that – time to move on.” Good or bad – nothing lasts forever.

Anyways, this past month or so has been filled with exciting new beginnings, nonchalant endings and a whole lot of that stuff that happens in between. I’ve gotten the opportunity to do so much recently that I hate to leave anything out but for the sake of trying to keep this remotely interesting ...I’ll say goodbye.

Life continues to be a whirlwind of adventure and awkwardness…well, perhaps not so much of a whirlwind but more of a slow Polka. Once again I took advantage of my location and went with Keith and Tiffany (PCV’s) to Macedonia, Albania and Greece. I really had no idea what to expect but it was amazing. The more I get to travel, the more I realize is out there and the deeper my sense of curiosity delves. Additionally, the opportunity to travel around the Balkans has only helped me get a better grasp of Romania’s history and mentality. Obviously Greece was spectacular and had more history than I could process. However, it was Macedonia and Albania that captured my intrigue. Tourism there is a bit more raw and for me, I think you get to see the country and culture in a more realistic atmosphere. In Albania we were able to stay with a few different Peace Corps Volunteers, which was fun to see what they did, where they lived and hear about their experiences. Other than the gorgeous landscape, one of my favorite aspects was meeting so many fascinating people from around the world (Evangelical missionaries, Irish “IT” man, 2 guys biking around the globe, a Chinese girl who was on the Albanian Big Brother, Czech ladies on the ferry and the list goes on.)

Since Macedonia and Albania are not in the EU, I was expecting to see countries that were worse off than Romania. This was not at all the case in Macedonia, at least based on appearances. It had a very modern aura and the roads…my goodness; we traveled on a real live freeway! Here we are getting to go to places like Athens and all we could think about was how nice the roads in Macedonia were! As soon as we crossed the border on foot to Albania, there was an immediate change back to the roads that we are use to…except in place of the infamous Dacias were massive amounts of Mercedes Benzes (however you’d pluralize that.) On our journey through Albania, I observed several life size dolls on or hanging from the roofs of houses and a plethora of concrete bunkers. Apparently the dolls are used to protect the home from the Evil Eye and the 700,000+ bunkers were built in the 1960’s in the case of a military attack. In order to get the bunker job, the architect had to climb inside his own created bunker while the military fired away; if he survived the job was his. Also, it was mostly men who were out and about, so that was a bit eerie at times; especially on our bus ride from Albania to Athens when Tiffany and I were two of five women on the entire bus. When we arrived at the border of Greece, there was an endless line of buses all filled with Albanian men attempting to find work in Greece. Since I’m guessing not all of them were legit, we sat at the border for 6 hours! Once we finally got to Athens, the amount of English we heard was overwhelming. For the first time in over a year we could understand not only our own conversation but also those around us – it was a grand and much welcomed epiphany. The three of us often sat mute during our meals because it was so exciting to know what was going on at the tables next to us and even across the room. It was nice not feeling like a complete idiot for a few days. Everywhere we went, the cuisine was delicious and the abundance of lamb was a nice change from the abundance of pork. Not including Greece, the drinking culture was not quite what we have grown accustomed to here, so a variety of instances like no alcohol sales after 7pm in Macedonia tended to catch us off guard. In conclusion, I’m easily impressed by road quality.

Where does one go from here? Although I have a year before my Close of Service in Romania, the time has come…I need to start answering that dreaded question. Until now, I’ve been able to comfortably live these past 15 months in the present; I haven’t had to worry about the future, I haven’t had to worry about tomorrow. For the first time, I have been able to focus on today. And quite frankly, I like it. It makes me happy, I like who I am when I’m off the planning. Whether I wanted to or not, I was forced to learn how to live life on the fly and let me tell you – it is grand!

So, do I brace the future with a cold shoulder? Why go back to a life where that is impossible? To a life that has a prerequisite of planning? Where even the prerequisites cause undue stress and unhappiness? Why? Well…plain and simple, because that’s my home. That’s where my family and friends are. That’s where my heart and soul lay. That’s where my mentality was created, my need for competition derived, my sense of curiosity sparked and freedom allowed me to become me. Consequently, where does one go from here?

Happy Easter! Although I celebrated my Easter last week in the big city of Suceava with a gourmet dinner at McDonald's and a trip to the “pet store”…

It slightly reminded me of the Easter my family was on the road back from The Ranch AKA my grandparents’ retirement community on the Rio Grande, where the Border Patrol flowed like margaritas and the Bingo blotters never went dry. Yes, we would drive round trip from Minnesota to the very southern tip of Texas and the nights we spent in nicer areas we could sleep with the car windows open! Thinking of all those endless family road trips…no wonder traveling in Romania with Current threats is such a breeze – no pun intended. Any hooters, we stopped at some fancy fast food joint and climaxed with an Easter egg hunt in the conversion van, which you can be sure we 3 girls did not do with any sort of grace. Oh how family vacation memories can make me giggle…

…we are now on the third and final day of the Romanian Orthodox Easter. School was supposed to resume today but when I showed up everyone was gone. Only 50 out the 200 students showed up so the Director sent everyone home! Can you imagine that happening back in the States?! So, apparently last week’s Easter vacation is unofficially extended. Yet another reason it will be difficult to return home. Everyone spent this past week spring cleaning and cooking more food than one ever thought possible. I got in the mood as well and brought my giant floor rug out for a good beating. Never had doing this before, I was going to have to mimic the Bunică method I’ve observed so many times before. So I rolled the ole girl up (my rug…not Bunică) and brought her out back to sling over the tree log apparatus my landlord uses for such an occasion. However, the horizontal log was a bit high so here I was jumping or more so flailing around in attempt to get the rug unrolled and hung. Success. Now...with what shall I beat it Dear Liza? Since I didn’t have the adequate rug beating instrument, I resorted to using my broom shaft. Forty-five minutes and two blistered hands later, it finally occurred to me why the bunicas are always able to push their way in front of me in line at the post office. Nevertheless, I must have some decent cleaning abilities because when I cleaned the organization club room with 2 other ladies they said I was definitely ready for marriage. Thank God! I thought the day would never come!

Thursday was the day to decorate eggs, which are typically died red. However, in the Bucovina area you can rarely go anywhere without seeing the traditional intricately painted eggs. The red eggs are the ones we used to play the egg cracking game on Sunday before eating. Before knocking your egg with a partner the first person states “Hristos a înviat!” and the second person responds “Adevărat a înviat!” (Christ has risen! He truly has risen!); and whoever’s egg does not break will have good luck the following year and/or a whole other slew of superstitions.

On Friday and Saturday I was invited to my counterpart’s house to learn how to make all the traditional food. As pork was the featured guest at Christmas, lamb is the “in meat” for Easter. Luckily I didn’t get to see one of those dead fellas in the flesh – word on the street is that it looks like a skinned cat. So I was thankful that just the back bone was present, from which we made a borş and friptură (kind of a roast). We did not make drob de miel, basically a meatloaf made from lamb organs, but we did have some with our meal on Sunday. It had an uncanny resemblance to banana bread, which apparently does not exist here, so you can only imagine that first disenchanting bite. When making cozonac (sweet/sponge cake), I asked the time requirement for kneading the dough and I was told until one sweats between the breasts…fair enough. Additionally we made răcituri (jellied meat – think chicken soup jello) and of course sarmale but instead of cabbage, we used grape leaves this time, which is more common to the Moldova region.

Saturday night I went to Easter service with my counterpart’s family at the small chapel in the psychiatric hospital. The true die hards are typically there from midnight to 4am. When I left my Bouse at 11:30pm, it was fun to see so many people out and about (the streets are generally deserted after the sun sets.) What tickled my fancy most were all the old ladies carrying their baskets of food that they had been slaving over all day to the church to be blessed before eating on Easter day. Approximately a half hour into the slujbă (service), the priest makes a call for light and lights a few individuals’ candles in front, who in turn light their neighbors and so on. Eventually each person is holding their own lit candle – quite honestly I’m amazed there aren’t more fire incidents. Shortly there after, the trickle of people leaving begins, which is when I also bid my adieus. Everyone carries their lit candle home and leaves it burning until morning. Of course mine blew out five feet out the door, so I took advantage of my lack of obligation and walked around town past some of the bigger churches. I wish I had taken a picture but the mental image of everyone walking home with their candles will forever bring me a sense of peace.

Spring has arrived. All long underwear layers have been shed, bathing is more frequent (or at least I entertain the thought) and I put my jazzercise class on hold as I hit the dirt roads to resume running. Having a year under my belt, I figured I’d have the running “situation” under control. You know – I’ve more or less grown accustomed to the blatant staring, chickens no longer tweak me out, running alongside a căruţă (horse drawn cart) isn’t all that awkward anymore and of course, those damn dogs. Obviously spring delivers more vagabond puppies, who take a pass by or two in order to acclimate to my grace as I jaunt by. Other than that, I’ve got the rest perfected to an art: if a large dog approaches - 1) cross street as needed and stop running (the small ones are looking more and more like footballs each day), 2) do not, I repeat, do NOT in any circumstance make eye contact, 3) be prepared to throw that imaginary rock, and as a last resort 4) there is no 4...just hope for no rabies. At any rate, I was ready to enjoy the beauty of spring without any underlying fears as I headed outdoors. While keeping my eyes open for new life, they quickly took a double take at the sight of an older gentleman watering the landscape alongside the road but my recent whiplash was due to the large fleshy hose in hand... Apparently I’ve been misinformed all along…April showers bring May full frontals?

These past two months have flown by quickly; strange how that happens when you have some work to do. I’ve been teaching 3 adult English classes – I wouldn’t say teaching is my forte but I have truly enjoyed the opportunity to meet other people and work outside of my Bouse. Along with a few other activities and the Blogging the Dream project, I recently collaborated with my Romanian counterparts to submit a grant for a social integration project that will benefit both adults with mental health issues and students with special needs…hoping to hear back soon. Additionally, I had my mid-service training for Peace Corps in Sinaia, meaning I’m officially half way done with my service. It’s hard to grasp that I’ve actually been gone for 14 months, especially when I continue to learn and experience something new every day. A lot of what I’ve done thus far hasn’t…well, honestly, it hasn’t felt overly productive or as if my being here is even necessary. Peace Corps Romania is kind of a mindfac (for a lack of a better word). On the surface, there appears to be all the modern amenities and ways of life from back home. However, the longer you’re here, the top layers are quickly peeled away and the lack of infrastructure is waving in your face. All this has taken some time to adjust to (on several levels) but mainly because I, like many other volunteers, envisioned the African hut trade mark experience that is associated with Peace Corps. Nevertheless, everything has played out better than I could have ever imagined. The cultural lessons, people and everything unique to Romania is what has made my experience worthwhile, one I will forever treasure.

Lastly but a moment I had been long awaiting …my little sister came to visit! It was so much fun to show her around Romania, particularly within my town and introducing her to people I interact with on a regular basis. Other than having someone here I could hug as often as I wanted without it being overly creepy, it was entertaining to see her reactions to life here and battle the regional nonconforming "lines." I must admit, it took me several months of waiting in these so called lines before I felt comfortable throwing bunică an elbow to stand my ground. After meeting Megan in Bucureşti, we traveled to Sfântu Gheorghe, Braşov (including a trip to Bran Castle) and Sighişoara before heading to Câmpulung Moldovenesc. Some of the more memorable activities included making “American” pancakes with my English Class, getting locked out of The Shagging room at our hostel in Braşov, hoisting each other over the wall at Raşnov Fortress (it was closed), the endless train rides and ponyback riding. When I went horseback riding in Ecuador, I swore to myself that I would never again ride horses in the mountains or another foreign country. Definitely a story for the future but let’s just say the mental trauma far outlasted the blisters that were left between my butt cheeks. Either the memory lapsed me or the masochist within reared its head, but sure enough I found myself horseback riding in the mountains of Romania. Apparently they weren’t ponies …they were simply lower to the ground for mountain riding – I wasn’t entirely sold. Regardless, shenanigans ensued. Horses on ice…not good. Mine fell on its knees thrice, Lil Meg’s had serious hip rotator issues and the guide’s barrel rolled on top of him. Although the scenery was gorgeous, the ride could not end soon enough.

By far one of the best vacations I’ve been on thus far. I’m not really a city person but I instantly fell in love with Krakow. The old colorful buildings captivated me in a way that architecture has never done before. The area is rich in WWII history, which for some reason has always intrigued me. The language was a crazy encounter of the third kind but I quickly learned by simply adding a “ski” to the end of each word I could carry on an intelligible conversation with the natives. Okay…not entirely true but FACT: Egyptian = Egipski, case in point. Also, since Romanian has some Slavic influence, I was able to pick up on a few words and by a few, I mean two. While Poland was amazing in itself, I think the greatness of this trip was enhanced by getting a glimpse of life on the “other side.” I don’t always realize what I’m missing while in Romania but after leaving for a brief period, I was served a giant cup of Espresso. Although in Eastern Europe and a former member of the Eastern Bloc, Poland has become extremely westernized. It is astonishing how much faster the development has evolved than in Romania after communism ended in 1989. Granted I did only experience a small portion of the country for a small period of time but the differences were surprisingly vast. People appeared to be happy, customer service was decent, there were not any stray dogs, I wasn’t in a continuous cloud of smoke (was even given the option of sitting in a non-smoking section) and it was relatively clean. Obviously the two countries have gone through their individual experiences but there has to be some further explanation. In pursuing such answers from a variety of Romanians, it has been fascinating learning more about their history and in turn, provided me with a better understanding of the negative mentality and sense of hopelessness that so many people carry here.

As I’ve expressed on several accounts before, traveling here takes an ungodly amount of time. In order to cut back on some of that time, we found a cheap roundtrip plane ticket from Targu Mures, Romania to Budapest for the equivalence of $12. Obviously too good to be true, right? Surely it would be an open cockpit, powered by us pedaling or maybe even a simple hang glider. Surprisingly Loose Wizzair Sleeve airlines presented a giant plane but unfortunately 6 hours late. Consequently we missed out on our day to see Budapest and our connecting train to Poland. On the plus side, we got a free sandwich and an all expense paid stay at the Budapest train station with all the homeless, drunks and hookers. The train station was actually pretty cool looking and made me think Dr. Zhivago (but that could be an incorrect memory on my part.) Either way, after a crazy night at the Budapest train station, where I might have contracted a temporary case of fleas, we took the next train to Krakow. However, this particular train took the scenic route into Slovakia through Bratislava into Czech Republic and 10 1/2 hours later to Poland. It was a nice opportunity to see a little bit of the other countries and experience 5 different currencies within a week. I did meet a friendly lady from Vienna who spoke a little English and insisted I talk to her daughter in English on the phone. Regrettably, the daughter was unavailable so her mother and I agreed on being pen pals via email. The lady was quite interesting, as she told me about the special education system in Austria (her son has Down Syndrome) and the prejudices she experienced as a Pole in Austria. In the grand scheme of things, to travel a distance that is maybe comparable to the Minneapolis to Chicago route (if that), it took over 24 hours and every form of transportation except a boat. No lie, I was in a car, plane, bus, metro, maxi taxi and multiple trains. If something doesn’t go wrong, which it inevitable does, you feel a bit let down, for you have nothing to show for your time spent.

Upon arriving in Krakow, I was immediately in awe. The apartment we rented was right next to the Florian Gate, which was once the entrance to the fortified Old Town of Krakow. We were only a few blocks away from the Main Market Square, Europe’s largest medieval square. We could even hear the bugler play from the tower of St. Mary’s Church every hour on the hour. Word on the street is that for as long as anyone can remember, a bugler has played the same song and stops mid note to honor the bugler who was announcing the arrival of the Tartars in 1241 and took an arrow from the enemy right in the jugular!

One of my favorite nights out was the evening we spent with our new crazy Polish friends. There are a few universities in Krakow, so there were lots of students and young people. This was exhilarating for all four of us Peace Corps Volunteers because we are currently living in small towns and villages in Romania, where 20-somethings are nearly nonexistent. It was fun to get a brief encounter with the Polish culture and hear about their worldviews (who they like, who they hate and why.)

We did the sobering trip to Auschwitz, an hour and half bus ride out of Krakow. It was a cold and rainy/snowy day; either way it would have been a fairly miserable trip. Even seeing the evidence of cruelty in person, did not make it any easier for the mind to fathom that such atrocities actually happened. However, it didn’t make it any easier to forget either, which I think is the motive in going to see something like this. As unsettling as it was to walk through where 1.1 million people were executed, I’m glad I did. There really are no words to express such an experience.

All things considered…lots of history, culture, good food, good drinks and good people…it was a grand trip! One I would recommend to anyone. Na zdrowie!

Of all the weddings, holidays and events I’ve missed this past year, being away for the birth of my first niece has been by far the hardest, for I will never get to hold her in my arms as a miniature pipsqueak. Georgia Elizabeth Grant was born (as a baby) at 2:43pm on Monday February 2, 2009 tipping the scale at a whopping 8 lbs and 17 ½”. My sister promised to call as soon as she was on her way to the hospital; so for the past week my heart would skip a beat every time the phone rang (which occurs on an average of 1.2 times/day – THEE text book definition of one who is in high demand.) Nevertheless, I did receive a few calls throughout the actual day of birth with updates and when the actual bundle arrived; my mother was so excited to be a grandma that she had forgotten to even ask what the name was. When I checked my email the following day, I immediately got tears in my eyes. Being away during Katie’s entire pregnancy made the whole situation surreal and now here was a picture of my niece, who I will not get to meet for 17 months. Furthermore, she was given my name - who knew how honored and proud that could make you feel? Needless to say, I’m ecstatic to finally be a matusa! February 2nd not only brought stork deliveries but it also brought water back into my life. On Friday night, the water went out like usual, and having a few guests over my water jug reserves went fairly quickly. In attempt to be a decent hostess, I got up to make coffee and breakfast but to no avail the water remained nonexistent. After waiting a couple of hours, we grew parched and headed into town. There’s nothing like washing your face and brushing your teeth in a public eating establishment. These truck stop routines conveniently continued throughout the entire weekend. Thus creating an opportunity for my first trip to the neighborhood well, which coincidently happened to also be my virgin well experience. Okay, FACT: I have been to a well before but not to retrieve water that I had to haul home. It was an exciting new experience, especially because all surfaces within a 5 foot radius was covered in ice. So between winding the chain up, dumping the bucket o’ water into my jugs and struggling to remain standing, I’d say... sign me up again. Luckily, this weekend was also Campulung Moldovenesc’s Serbarile Zapezii (snow festival) and provided more than an ample amount of entertainment to distract us. I mean…with horses, outdoor concerts, fireworks and a visit by our very own Native Americans (who are strangely on the Romanian Festival circuit), how could it not?

For the first time in my life I have become conscious of how a "lady" should act and ironically find myself abiding by these societal norms when in view of the Romanian public. Obviously back home I was well aware of how a "True Lady" should behave but always scoffed at the old school traditions that I have always viewed as ridiculous and slightly demeaning. In turn, I have constantly attempted to be my own kind of lady. So why now? Why fall to the mercy of the traditional gender roles of Romania that are far more restricting than those I've experienced back home?

First and foremost, I think as a foreigner I'm quite hypervigilant to all behaviors - male and female. Out of respect and as a guest in this country I try to follow suit; even if I think it is silly. I'm often surprised and sometimes amused by the actions that induce the response, "nu e frumos pentru femei (not good for women)." Secondly, demonstrating a similar behavior makes it a bit easier to be a part of something, to blend in, when in almost every other aspect of my life I do not.

Therefore, I suppose it would only be safe to say that I have become a "faux lady" in the streets. On the other hand, that sounds like another name for a lady of the night...but you get the drift. When it comes down to it, I'd like to think that I'm at least being viewed as respectful by those I am currently living amongst.

Now mother...by no means has this done the job of the Finishing School you always threatened to send me to or the ballet class you DID send me to in 5th grade on account of my ungracefulness. As you can see, that clearly did wonders! There's nothing like a husky girl in a tu-tu to emotionally scar you for life.

Like almost everything else I’ve experienced in Romania, Christmas somehow just seemed to fall into place. In the weeks leading up to the big day, I attempted to fill the void with my own make shift holiday preparations but still found something to be missing. And then it happened…someone flipped the switch. With three days to go, it finally started to snow and Campulung Moldovenesc morphed into a winter wonderland and doubled its population overnight. Everyone working abroad or attending university in the big cities of Romania had come home. Although I knew no one returning, it was quite evident who they were through their fashion, material possessions and simply by the way they carried themselves. Unlike home, people did not put up Christmas lights and trees until the week of Christmas. There were not any Clark Griswold contenders but nevertheless I was excited to see the decorations (especially the Christmas trees that were set up outside) and everything was so much more beautiful with a soft layer of snow. My landlord even put up a strand of lights on my Bouse (half barn/half house)! I finally realized that it hadn’t felt like Christmas because I had been searching in all the wrong places. For some reason it didn’t occur to me earlier that all the tell tale signs would be different on the other side of the snow globe.

In my 10 months here, I’ve learned that Romanians love their holidays (I swear there is at least one Saint Day every week). This time of year is no different; there is a steady flow of celebrations from December 20th (Ignat – the great pig sacrifice) to January 7th (St. John). Since the beginning of December I have heard from other volunteers who have “gotten” the pleasure of attending one of these pig killings or even just hear the dreadful squealing from the tranquility of their own homes. When Romania joined the EU in 2007, officials attempted to make this custom illegal because it is considered cruel and inhumane. However, many Romanians, especially in rural regions (the majority of the country) were not happy to let go of the pig slaughtering tradition. For years, their ancestors have sacrificed pigs in order to feed their families at Christmas and throughout the rest of winter. Since the Spaniards are allowed to kill bulls in the arena, this traditional slaughtering is allowed by EU Standards to continue but only on Christmas and Easter. I won’t go into detail for the sake of your appetites but just know that no part of that pig goes unused. Then again, I simply can’t resist from saying that the pig skin, right after being blow torched (for hair removal purposes) with a little salt is a real crowd pleaser. Oh, and I did see a picture of bread crumbs marinating in a bucket of blood.

Instead of slicing and dicing on the 20th, I finally entered my first church in Campulung to listen to some Christmas carols. Of course I managed to first follow the wrong herd of people to an after funeral meal and almost got trapped into sitting down. It just wouldn’t be right if I didn’t take at least one wrong turn along the way.

December 23rd is when my Christmas spirits were finally uplifted. After my usual Romanian tutoring session and learning about the pagan celebration of Christmas (refer to previous post for explanation), my Romanian Counterpart invited me to her home. She and her daughter taught me how to make a variety of the traditional Christmas foods. The most important and delicious being Sarmale, a pork and rice mixture rolled in a boiled cabbage leaf. Little did I know, the rolling procedure would consist of me sticking my finger in what resembled the human tail pipe. Needless to say, there were many laughs to be had and as always, plenty was lost in translation. During our cooking escapade my counterpart’s colleague called to ask if I wanted a little Christmas tree so of course I jumped on that opportunity. There I was, walking home at 11pm in the snow with a 3ft pine tree in one hand and a tree stand in the other, grinning like an idiot. It was at that moment that I was finally okay with being away from the traditions that I have known for the past 26 years. Upon arrival at the Bouse, I proudly set up my first Christmas tree of my own and decorated it with random objects, complete with a post-it note Angel!

Christmas Eve brought another snowy day full of new experiences. I headed back to my Counterpart’s house for a night of caroling. They couldn’t believe that I had never been before but I explained that they would soon hear why. Caroling is almost like our Trick-or-Treating in that kids go door to door singing and in turn receive treats or money. When adults go, they get invited in for drinks and something to eat. We went to four houses of their family and friends, where we stayed at each place for about an hour. Our group of five sang a Romanian carol and then We Wish You A Merry Christmas. It was a long night of Romanian but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I learned that whistling on the street is not polite and ladies even run the risk of enhancing their breast size (on that note, I’d recommend the Itty Bitty Titty Committee to start eating their bread crusts immediately!) Afterwards, we went back to their house to open presents. When I finally returned home at 1am, I was extremely grateful to be able to talk to my family (all 20+) via skype during their Christmas Eve Celebration. Although it was a struggle to get through all the hearing aid malfunctions and confusions of how this skype business worked, it was nice to see some of the family I haven’t seen since I left home.

Mos Craciun brought me even more snow on Christmas morning. Once again, I returned to my Counterpart’s house for Christmas dinner, the one I got to help prepare two days before. I learned that I should not sit on the corner of a table because that would most likely prevent me from becoming married. No wonder my mother opted for the round kitchen table. Either way, it must have been faulty. Shortly after eating, I went to a second Christmas dinner at another Romanian colleague’s home. After a near death choking experience on a fish bone, the real death experience began…And her name was Palinka! A homemade alcohol distilled twice that I like to refer to as the devil’s juice.

After a few day Palinka induced rest, I started seeing a variety of traditional “shows” as I walked through town. The first one I saw on the Platou was Plugosorul meaning the little plow. There were oxen pulling a plow that carried what I thought looked like a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. Additionally there were several men dressed in traditional clothing playing a variety of pipes and long wooden bugles called Bucium. Technically, I believe these giant instruments were actually Tulnic because they were not curved. Nevertheless, they were traditionally played by shepards to guide their sheep and dogs, as well as for communication throughout the mountainous region. Then of course there were two men cracking whips like their lives depended on it. This traditional procession is meant to bring good fortune in the New Year. On a few other occasions I observed the traditional dances of the Capra (goat) and Ursul (the bear), also intended as a wish for bountiful crops and healthy animals. All of these customs are carried out by males and I found it intriguing to see so many younger boys carrying on the traditions.

New Year’s Eve was a fairly low key evening of cards and champagne with another PCV, Carol. Luckily we got to watch the “fireworks” and debauchery on the Platou from Chris’s apartment above for I think we probably would have lost an eye had we been down below. After freezing ourselves hanging out the window, watching fireworks and eating ice cream, we thought we’d really bring in the New Year with style…plugging in a second electric heater (the apartment’s only source of heat). No such luck; we blew a fuse, all the power went out and we couldn’t get access to the fuse box until morning. This is the life!

A few days later, the celebrations continued. Walking up my street at 6pm I was almost run over by several of my adult neighbors on sleds. They enticed me to join them in the street for a bonfire, drinks, dancing and sledding. This sledding danger level definitely presents stiff competition for the Extreme Sledding my family does every year on Christmas Eve. They all use the old school wooden sleds that sit about a foot off the ground with metal runners. Needless to say, they really move on a pure ice winding road down the mountain. Metal fences, large rocks, people and the sporadic car all posed potential injurious hazards. However, if a car did attempt to pass, they would all dive onto the ground to create a human barricade. They would not let the car pass until the driver had gotten out and joined in the fun for a good period of time. Bar none, my favorite memory of the evening was doing the Hora into the older neighbor lady’s house. We didn’t even stop to knock! I can’t even fathom partaking in a similar event at home.

I think it would be safe to say winter has finally arrived…apparently they follow that whole winter solstice thing, as it immediately began snowing on Dec 21st. Those fur jackets and hats I’ve always associated with Russia and Eastern Europe are truly in full effect. At home, winter camping continues. I’m learning that I have to keep the soba going all day to keep my room at at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Cooking and bathing have become more of a chore because their respective rooms are just above freezing (no heat). It’s nice I don’t have to worry about putting food away but I have found I need to put my fresh produce in the fridge if I don’t want them getting a little frosty. I’ve learned to make my coffee and tea quite a bit hotter so it’s not cold within 8 minutes. Other than that, I have accepted the fact that I have turned into my grandfather as I religiously wear a full set of long underwear at all times.

Today the ice finally won. Low and behold, it got above freezing so there was a little melting action taking place. As I started my walk home before dusk, my foot took a gamble of its own, throwing me flat on my back into a giant puddle. And yes, there was even a splash. Completely soaked and looking as if I soiled myself, I made the 20 minute jaunt through town to my humble abouse. I should have taken better note when I saw that girl ice skating down the street last week. In efforts to ward off hypothermia (or simply the fact that January is almost over), I finally took down my Christmas tree, cutting it into small pieces and burning them in my soba. I think the day that I stop asking myself if this is really happening will be the day that I know it’s time to go back home.

Here's a brief description of what type of work I will be doing after my initial training period;

"ID Volunteers initiate efforts to strengthen the organizational and management skills of related NGOs and governmental agencies dealing with institutionalized children, abused children, minority issues, HIV/AIDS prevention, and of agencies focused on youth development and information technology.

ID Volunteers have backgrounds and experience in special education, health-related areas, community services, working with youth-at-risk, NGO development, social work, information technology, and public administration. According to their backgrounds and experience, ID Volunteers are assigned to NGOs and municipalities and are engaged mainly in:

*training direct services providers (such as nurse practitioners, caregivers, social workers, special needs educators and therapists);

*training and coordinating community Volunteers recruited by ID PCVs mainly from local youth; *role-modeling/demonstrating organizational management with their agencies' staff members or Volunteers (in such areas as project writing, proposal writing, board development, program evaluation and public relations)

Besides the skills transfer with their local counterpart agencies, ID Volunteers collaborate with national partners (such as municipal child protection departments, local public administrations) and international partners (such as SERA, Principesa Margareta, Romanian Angel Appeal, People Services International, RITI and USAID [ChildNet]). They provide support in implementing national strategies in child services, introducing IT/new technologies in local administration and helping reform process requirements (document tracking, Internet access, local tax collection, etc).

ID PCVs throughout the country mediate and promote networking and coalition development of special target population agencies including NGOs working in HIV/AIDS, NGOs/child protection departments focused on disabled youth, NGOs for the mentally ill, NGOs involved in anti-trafficking campaigns, and NGOs for preventing and combating violence against women."

Despite my vigorous training on the uneven parallel bars and best efforts to pack by process of elimination, I'm still not quite ready to leave physcially. Regardless of what I've already done, there always seems to be more. However, mentally I am more than ready. I've been waiting to flee the country for a year and a half, and frankly I'm pretty damn excited to get this show on the road. Then of course there's the emotional aspect...I have accepted the fact that I will miss important events in the lives of those close to me but that does not make it any easier to know that I will miss births, weddings, deaths and shit, maybe even a bar mitzvah. But really, how does one go about saying goodbye to everything and everyone they know? That's when the realization comes to me, I'm not necessarily dying. Well, not anytime soon. So until that's actually the case, I am simply going with "until next time."

I truly don't think there is anything that can really prepare me for this adventure. Not even a little one on one training with Bela. It is inevitable, who wouldn't be anxious? I mean who wouldn't be concerned about the potential stray dog attacks but at least I know that "Running near dogs, especially when carrying large threatening backpacks, is not a good idea. If you do get bitten, you’ll be required to watch the culprit dog for a few days to ensure it doesn’t have rabies." Really?? I'm not watching S#@*! However, my dad does want to get me a walking stick with mase that shoots out the end to keep those strays away. Do they even actually make those? I passed.

On a more anxious note, I truly am fretting the whole language barrier. I have recieved some good materials and should have been practicing some of the Romanian fundamentals but I'll be the first to admit, I have not. I regret that decision immediately, but I am having a hard time preparing for a new chapter in my life, when I'm trying to finish this one up. Once I get there though, I will be ready to go 110%. I am just acknowledging that there WILL be a lot of awkward moments for a long time but hey...those are my favorite! Nothing like trying to play charades with your new host family and you draw "I clogged your Loo."

Anyhow, just over a week left before departure. I've been done with work for the past two weeks and living with my parents for the past week and its been grand. As hard as it will be to finally go, it has been fun taking in all my favorites one last time. I'm headed up north one more time with my sisters and friends for some quality bonding time to last me two years. It's all very bitter sweet but I'm ready. In fact, I can't wait...move over Nadia!