I remember an English teacher in the eleventh grade—Mr. Raymond—who on the first day of class gave a long lecture on personal responsibility and continuously referenced the “dog ate my homework” saying. He began the lecture asking who had dogs. He continued with proposing that it was possible that a dog could eat our homework, but then he asked if such a possibility was avoidable. This question was rhetorical, as he immediately responded to himself, “Of course it is! You simply go to another room and shut the door or stay on a surface too high for the dog to reach.” He not only wanted us to realize he wouldn’t be accepting any excuse for unfinished homework, but to realize that they were just that: excuses. At the end of the day, if your homework isn’t done, it’s your fault—not the dog’s that ate it or the backpack’s in which it was left.

I once said and will repeat: kids are kids, and kids don’t fully understand the idea of responsibility. They aren’t responsible for paying bills or ensuring food is on the table or making sure the house stays standing. I think children see it as enough responsibility to simply make it to school five days a week—with or without homework finished. It is expected that the average kid will not do his or her homework at some point. We’ve all not done some assignment at some point in our lives. Yet despite these universal similarities, excuses are something that I’ve noticed differ greatly between American schools and Romanian ones.

The saying “the dog at my homework” is well known in America because it’s funny and based on a truthful possibility. It’s popularity, however, has caused a rising of the bar for excuses in American schools. If the baseline that students have is as funny as a dog eating your homework, where do you go from there? Often either more elaborate or more absurd. Before Romania, I had middle school students telling long stories about family trips and forgotten notebooks in hotels or small siblings vomiting on worksheets. In Giroc, my students’ excuses have the very limited range of “am uitat” to “acasa.”

Certainly, the creative differences are pretty stark—not that all of my former middle school students would come up with intricate or fanciful reasoning. What throws me off most in Romania, however, isn’t the non-elaborate or creative excuses, but the tone many of my Giroc students use. My American students would seem to be or pretended to be apologetic, which happens sometimes here. But many Giroc students proclaim their excuses in such a factual and nonchalant manner that I don’t know what to make of it—especially when their reasoning is simply, “n-am facut.”

Until Mr. Raymond’s lecture, I hadn’t really thought about what being personally responsible meant. In the past, I had been sorry about not doing or forgetting homework, and I had used elaborate excuses. When thinking about this, responsibility begins in an absurd or complicated excuse or an apologetic voice because you are acknowledging that you were responsible for doing something—even if you failed to do it. This is why I struggle with some of my Giroc students. A flat voice saying you forgot or didn’t do it doesn’t suggest awareness of a responsibility to me. The difference must be cultural, and maybe it’s one of those things that I’m just not going to fully grasp. Either way, it’s probably easier on Romanian dogs’ digestive systems.

Preface:

I do not need to be informed of my incredible lack (understatement) of devotion to this blog. I can read dates. A fair amount of my reasoning is unworthy, but then I started work for graduate school applications sometime in August and lost my stepfather in October.

I'm thinking I'll be weird and update this thing until I'm back in the states. Though unintentional, it will have some sort of symmetry in that I kept it up for my first six or so months of my PC service, and now my last six or so months of it.

Introduction:

Marisa and I, along with two other Romanian PCVs, (Bangjin and Adam) recently traveled to Cairo, Egypt. To legitimize our logic for still going while the protests there had just begun: Our friend Bangjin has a friend that lives in Cairo, who - on January 27th - was still telling us to come and that things would be fine as long as we stayed out of the center. So with this information, the existence of the financial investment in the tickets and the lure of the pyramids, we went. Obviously, this friend was wrong. As she is still in Cairo and has spent the better part of the last couple weeks holed-up in her apartment, we're not too begrudging.

What follows is my creative non-fiction/mixed-form version of the events between the evening of January 27th - as we flew from Bucharest, Romania - and the night of January 29th, as we were waiting for a our flight to Athens, Greece (evacuated from Cairo by the Peace Corps).

44 Hours in Cairo Amidst a Revolution

You should always fly at night. If you're human. Airports are quiet then. Lines exists only vaguely in day-like dreams. The gate of the duty-free has a glazed-over smile - content with its giant bellyful of liquor and chocolate. You can still get a coffee at that one little cafe that no one goes to during the day and realize that their coffee really isn't much worse than the rest. It's black, has caffeine and its slight stale flavor can still be disguised with cream and sugar.

Your flight isn't full. Your seat assignment is negotiable. Just stay in your class, and you don't have to sit next to the fellow that should have two seats or the offspring torturing its fellow passengers with wails for the negligence of its parents.

The only problem is that you, as with everyone, don't like arriving anywhere after 11pm, though you can't place why. If asked, you will utilize logistical reasoning: cabs are more expensive, buses and trains run less often at night (if at all), my friends/family have work the next day. These are the reasons your brain tells you to give, but really your brain is making excuses because it doesn't want to work that hard at that time of night. Perception gets clouded around 9pm for most people. It works best foggily under the influence of foreign substances or glued to the static imagery of computer screens or televisions or envisioning the subconcious' metaphorical representations of desires and fears during rapid eye movement. Your brain struggles with climate changes, foreign languages and different timezones in normal circumstances; after 9pm, these things cause your perception of reality to fade into ambiguous parallels - a stop sign looks sort of like a lollipop, the triangular female on the restroom door is nearly indistinguishable from the rounded-rectangular male, etc.

Your mind also gets angry at your eating a strange airplane meal at midnight. "What are you doing?!" it demands. "I turned the stomach off nearly two hours ago! This isn't even real food!"

The Cairo airport (more accurately: the Cairo airport of 2am, January 27th) doesn't really exist in my mind at this point. There are only snapshots that I can recollect. The Visa booth guy. The Egyptian entry form. A money exchange station still open. A corner turned to the passport checkout. A young Egyptian wearing gold tennis shoes (Adidas maybe?).

And then I'm outside the airport. Our driver is on the steps with Marisa's name on a piece of cardboard. He's quoting/mimicking Borat. It's cool outside, but warmer than Romania. I hear some throat-clearing-like noises as two men speak Arabic nearby. There's an overlap, now, in my mind of the Arrival Building that night - nearly empty - and as we walked past it some 40 hours later in the daylight - people everywhere, cars everywhere, madness.

The drive to our hostel - aside from glances at images engraved on a large stone wall we drive along, a random palace like building and two or three breathtaking mosques - is the seeming monologue from our driver...

Driver: You come to Egypt at great time! (The sarcasm not evident just yet.) I think you never come back after a day or more. Very nice! (A pause...and then one of us must have asked something about the protests.) You be okay if you stay out of center. Don't try to see museum tomorrow. You be fine. (A long silence.) I put some music on...ssank you very much! (Another long silence.) Tomorrow there will be no internet or cellphones. Mubarak shuts them down so that people cannot make plans. But no worries. They will come back the next day. Just tomorrow because tomorrow is a big demonstration day. (A shorter silence.) People are done with Mubarak and he's lies. We are ready for new. (Bangjin asked something about how Mubarak was elected if people don't like him. No matter how many synonyms we tried for 'elected,' he seemed unable to understand the idea of having chose Mubarak.)

As we got into the center of Cairo - nearing our hostel, we went down a few side streets that were more than a little sketchy and finally arrived at our hostel. After checking in and putting our bags in our rooms, Bangjin, Adam and I went out and got some water (the water in Cairo is too chlorinated to drink if you are not accustomed) a block and a half away and could see Tahrir Square just moments away. It was as close as we ever got to it, and as far from our hostel as we ever got on foot.

Dahab Hostel...a description: Eighth, and top, floor of an old building a mere block away from Tahrir Square. Two ways up...tiny, gated elevator (usually guarded by an old Egyptian man who would only let three people in it at a time and one time may have been hitting or harassing Marisa (the word 'sex' was clear))...eight flights of winding stairs. Two stories. No roof over all of the courtyard areas. The main desk was under a roof, but opened to a open-roofed greeting area with nice tiles of various browns. The "second floor" of the hostel - accessible through multiple steep staircases and a couple of ladders was literally the roof of the building. There, you could climb up to slightly higher sections of roof where antennas, cable dishes and laundry lines were fixed. Some of the courtyard sections were covered by make-shift canopies of clothe and/or tarp. The rooms were decently clean and our in-suite bathroom seemed relatively new, with a very nice sink.

Fast-forward: 11am local time Friday (January 28th). We are all ready to go out, but Bangjin, Marisa and I are all a bit tenuous because PC has sent us texts in the night to be very careful, avoid Cairo if possible (*cough, cough*) - especially center (*cough, cough*). Hostel guys are nice and friendly: "You'll be fine. Go out! Have a nice day! Use our driver for $200 Egyptian Pounds. Just stay out of the center." Alright. We make our way to a nearby mini-market for some breakfast food. We return to the hostel and eat in a lounging area. A good dozen-or-so cats ranging in appearance from nearly-dead-looking to slightly-plump-and-healthy-looking meander about our feet and chairs meowing for our food. A German gentleman sits to our left eating a yogurt. I begin a conversation...

Me: Good morning.

German: Morning.

Me: Have you been here the last few days?

German: I have.

Me: How are things outside with the protests?

German: It's been tense. But today...today is going to be insane.

Me: Oh...

German: Yeah. They took it easy yesterday. Today's the big day.

Me: Oh...

(silence. German man rises to leave.)

German: Have a nice day.

Me: ......You too.

I fill his yogurt cup, which he has left for the cats, with some of our milk - as we have no refrigerator. Bangjin returns from her room (she had been absent during this conversation). We discuss. We are all, except Adam, more nervous about going out than earlier. A conversation with the hostel guys ends in the same result as earlier. "Go, but stay out of center. Here is an address in Arabic for the citadel if you need a cab." Overheard conversation between some French guests and a probable American one reveals the protests start after prayer (1:30pm). It's about 12:30 at this moment. Group vote (3 to 1 (you should know who the 1 is)): Let's not go out. Let's see what happens today and plan on going out tomorrow (ha!), but let's go out right now before protests start for more water and food.

Out we go. Back we come. Water and Digestives (seriously the name of a brand of sweetmeal biscuits) and some chips and things in hand.

Note: When reporters covering uprisings try to describe tension in the air, I now know what they mean. It was palpable in our five-to-ten minute trip to and from a small mini-market on the next block.

No More Calm

"It's starting," someone says

feet up steps, ladders

feet up cement grooves to higher positions

a mass of men

a mass of noise

mass of anger

one word clear

"Mubarak"

a mass of black forms a border

pops

smoke

rocks

pops

more smoke

"Mubarak"

another mass at the opposite end

the chanting rises

more rocks

more smoke

another mass appears

another black line

more smoke

the masses move on

the lines move on

the chanting grows fainter

the smoke lingers

feet descend

As the day went on, the shouting and chanting rose and fell as it neared and departed. The loud pops of the teargas firing did the same. After an hour or two, our hostel friends ceased insinuating that we go out. Somewhere around five or six, we had to begin holing ourselves up in Adam's room because the air in our open-roofed hostel began to get hazy with the teargas.

You are outside your simple hostel room. The air around you doesn't seem clear. You quickly become aware of stinging in your eyes. It feels like soapy water has run into them. You squint thinking it will help; it makes it worse. Pure soap. You breath in and your nose stings and tightens. You feel a shortness of breath and you take in a gulp of the air. You throat burns. The shortness of breath increases. You rush to get inside. You rinse your eyes and for a moment the burning intensifies; then slowly it fades. You look in the mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by pink, puffy skin.

Now imagine this times ten or twenty amidst the gas. Now imagine being so determined, so angry and fed up that you don't go inside. You stay in the gas and defiantly keep marching. You get hit by a baton and you keep marching. You get shot at; you keep marching.

I, having felt only the teargas, can't imagine it. Can you?

As the night progressed, we mostly stayed in Adam's room. When we left we held our breath to get to our separate rooms or the bathroom or the desk - even though that was pointless because it was in the open air and eventually we had to breath. Eventually, the hostel guys went on a food and water run for guests. The pops of the teargas cannons were joined by another type of pop. We tried to ignore this, but sometime late in the night, our PC Romania Country Director called and said we were to be evacuated. When I was on the phone with her discussing things at the desk, I overheard the one hostel worker talking to another guest: "They've started shooting people."

The evacuation order meant 24 hours. Theoretically, we would be out Cairo in 24 hours. We soon learned the US Embassy was on lockdown because its guards had abandoned it. We also learned later (over a week later) that the Embassy did nothing in the process to get us evacuated other than give the okay for us to find our way to the airport. If not for the Peace Corps - specifically PC Romania, we would have been in Cairo until Monday or Tuesday.

I digress. After the "shooting" comment, things got more tense. From the second level, we were able to see smoke from multiple fires and the government building's slow progression to a black, skeletal mass of concrete. Our street seemed to be some sort of quick meeting point. Men on mopeds or motorcycles would stop by groups gathered and talk about something, then ride off toward Tahrir. The burning of the teargas in the air came and went in waves. Sometimes it was unbearable, and we couldn't be out of our room. Other times it was barely noticeable. Mubarak made an announcement around 12 or 1am saying he'd fire the government and stay with his people until the end. The shouting and chanting rose after that. We tried to sleep. Managed a little in the early morning when the protesting finally ended.

The morning was calm. The army had arrived. We had a hostel breakfast: a boiled egg, bread and coffee. Marisa, Adam and I went out very briefly to get more water. A tank on our street. Two men helping another one limping. Broken barricades lying on their sides. In the small market, everyone was shouting for something. Two younger men tried to steal a beer. The manager/owner shut the metal gate entrance almost completely and yelled at the men. Customers tried to diffuse the situation. One middle aged lady smiled at us and said in excellent English: "It is not a good time to be in Egypt, I think. My family in Pittsburgh is very worried about me being back here right now." What could we reply? We agreed, waited for the yelling to end, paid for our food and water and got back to the hostel.

Waiting. Watching the government building burn. Seeing the protesters slowly gather. Seeing other guests leave for the airport. Waiting. At last, around 2pm, our country director called and told us we had an 8:50pm flight to Athens, and we could stay there for the week if we wanted. We said: "Yes. Just get us the flight." She called again: "Get to the airport now before the 4pm curfew. Try to get a taxi."

On the street, with our hostel friend trying to hail us a taxi... A man in a business suit and a man in jeans and a t-shirt directed traffic away from Tahrir Square. They yelled at people disobeying. The police had disappeared. People pointed at the square and told us, "Don't go their." Some were serious and warning us. Others laughed. Some told us to go inside. It wasn't safe. We were four Americans waiting on a corner for an Egyptian man to get us a taxi as they drove by full of people. The masses were gathering. Marching toward Tahrir. It seemed like many more than we had seen from the rooftop. Men, women, children.

At last, our hostel friend gave up on the taxi and found a friend to take us there. We would pay him what we paid for the taxi (we paid him more). We thanked our friend and gave him money. What more or less could we have done?

Ride to Our Exit

cramped

hot

tiny

old

car

loud Muslim music

blaring from the cassette deck

broken English

"You Americans?"

"Yes."

"No good time to be in Egypt.

You be smart to get away.

It will be craze till Mubarak go."

too fast

weaving in and out

of people

burned cars

around corners

by tanks

by men with guns

by men with rocks

by people with flags

by and through so many people

and so much of the military

"Mubarak's cows.

They his cows, but better than

police."

the air smells burnt

oily

frazzled

tense

traffic jam

five rows of cars

four lanes

people leaving

"This is just my car,

this is just my body,

but this...

this is my country."

cassette ends

fiddling

static

a line of tanks

looking like they lie in wait

the highway

now weaving in and out of cars

"We burn it all.

Burn it all down

and build it new

if we have to."

too fast

not fast enough?

The airport was a mass traffic jam. We had him drop us in a parking lot where he could turn around and we could walk from. "Good luck my friends." We paid him, and he sped away. Returning to it.

The terminal was turmoil. People were everywhere. Security un-secure. Detectors beeped non-stop as they just waived people through if they pointed to a watch or belt. At the check-in, they checked all luggage to speed the process. Flights would soon be stopping. They were rushing. Finally, we were set and sat in chairs on the second story above our gate. It was a flight to Amsterdam. It would be Athens, and it would be one of the last flights out of Cairo that night.

People sat at cafes and restaurants. Eating. Drinking. Every bite, every sip took them farther from Cairo, from Egypt, from revolution, from years of unhappiness and oppression that they most likely had never experienced - or certainly hadn't if they weren't Egyptian. I got a coffee. It calmed my nerves. It took me away from the pops and stinging and flames and shouts and anticipation at every ring of the hostel's phone and the Digestives and the death-like cats looking to me for the salvation of another day or two and knotted stomach and the anxious talk of what-ifs. Every sip of the sweetened, black liquid brought me to that clean, crisp airport terminal where people were simply drinking their coffees or teas or eating their fries or sandwiches because they were hungry and thirsty - not because they were trying to escape their fear or guilt or stress or all of them combined.

Adam and Bangjin bought souvenirs from a shop, and I remember thinking, "How silly." What were they buying them to remember? Our hostel? Our presence amidst a revolution? How do coasters with Egyptian designs or a framed drawing on papyrus sum that up? How do they begin to represent that? But it was just like my coffee.

What do you do when you're a normal person waiting for a normal flight to Athens from a normal Cairo under normal circumstances? You buy a souvenir. You drink a coffee. You imagine your visit to Cairo was interesting and fun.

"Yeah... Right," says your brain.

It's a problem, let me tell you.

Now going into the Peace Corps, you know that you will be relying on whatever existing modes of public transportation there are. Or maybe a bike. But only if you wear a helmet (and who really wants to do that?).

Yet... Having had a car in America that ran pretty well and allowed me to go when and where I pleased (within reasonable distances), public transportation has taken on a whole new meaning here in Romania.

I'm fairly certain that being in Romania, and specifically at our site, allows Marisa and me a bit more liberty in getting around. The village bus runs every hour to and from Timisoara during the week and every two hours on the weekends. If we are really in a hurry, we can get a taxi. In Timisoara, there are buses and trollis that run very regularly. The Timisoara train station is only about an hour from our apartment in the village and can get us to most places in the country. The airport is a short taxi ride to the east of the city. And... If all else fails, we have Romanian friends with cars that we could imposition.

Still, all of these things rely on adhering to schedules and/or forking out a fair amount of money (outside of the impositioning of friends). Not to say that driving was free in America - as gas was increasingly over-priced. But there is something different about having to be a certain place at a certain time in order to get to another place at a certain time that differs from putting fuel in your own car and going.

It makes the freedom of travel here seem even less free than the already non-free freedom of travel in America. There you had to pay for a car and insurance and license and gas and upkeep. But after all that money - if you had a nice enough car - you could drive to California any time you wanted.

Though, I feel that at the end of the day the difference has little to do with having a car or not. It has to do with time, which is interesting.

Americans (watch me generalize!) are so reliant upon wall clocks and desk clocks and alarm clocks and cellphone clocks and wrist watches and pocket watches (I mean...someone has one somewhere) that it is often unsettling: I must wake at exactly this time and leave at exactly that time to arrive at exactly this time so that I can do this and that at exactly these times and then return at exactly this time after I meet so-in-so at exactly that time. With other times slipped here and there in between all of those times. And yet, we have the "freedom" to go and do what we want when we want. Our restrictions are self-induced: We don't have time to do this because of that. But, at the end of the day, that just means we don't want to make the time. Or maybe we postpone it...then we die out of the blue...having never done it. Shoot. If only I had more time.

Romanians (Generalizing...GO!), on the other hand, are far less reliant upon clocks, and they have only one word for all the different types: ceas (che-ahss). Generally, you'll find less clocks about (I don't have one in my classroom and can think of only one other one in the school). When they say a time, it can mean 15 or more minutes later. They tend to be a tad more lax in planning. The irony being that 93% of them (latest figures show that less than 7% of Romanians own cars) have to rely on this more abstract construction so rigidly to get from place to place.

With this - even if the American time-freak in me won't fully let go - I am beginning to feel a bit more lax about time myself. I still wake up at a specific time for school three days a week, but I'm less concerned with being other places at exact times - unless a "meeting" has justified so. Or perhaps, Marisa and I go someplace early and just walk around until we have to be at a place. Or when we're going to go into Timisoara, we decide to take the next bus and relax for an hour. And, I find myself looking at/for ceasuri (clocks) a bit less often than I used to.

I wonder what it will be like returning to the slightly-freer freedom of travel and far-less-free freedom of time-obedience.

Ah, well...

What's the rush?

As it turns out, New Years happens in Romania the same as it does in Michigan. Well, except for the incredible amount of fireworks that went off as 2010 began last night...in the rain...

Which brings me to the discussion of current Romanian weather. It sucks. At least it sucks around Timisoara. It's been anywhere from almost freezing to almost 50 degrees Fahrenheit with rain, rain, rain, rain, rain...and rain. Except one day...one day was pretty.

Marisa and I rescued a street kitten from the perils of Romanian village life (I mean...there are a few vagabond dogs that might have tried to eat him someday). His name is Cezar (chey-zar). Since our adoption of him, we have had to battle fleas, which I blame on Marisa - as she didn't allow me to wash him as soon as we got him home.

Due to the combination of the Romanian government forcing teachers to take an extra week off school (unpaid) before regular winter break and a week long Peace Corps In-Service Training Conference before that, Marisa and I have had a month off from school. We have spent it very productively lesson planning and preparing for school Monday.........

Christmas is a three day event for many Romanian families - the 25th through the 27th. It is also, like Christmas in America, filled with LOTS of meat and desserts. We enjoyed the third day with our Romanian tutor and her family. We also learned Romanian rules for Rummikub (or Rummy Cube) and played it for multiple hours with her and her sister.

While Asher and Justin, a couple of other volunteers, were visiting, we toured Timisoara (at the time it was frigid and snowing a lot). We found the Revolution Museum, which was more of a memorial to those who died in the '89 revolution. It was interesting and somewhat depressing as they had clothing and pictures of people killed. We had some Guinnesses! We also saw the Absurdist play "The Bald Soprano," which was written by Eugen Ionescu, a Romanian who lived in France most of his life. We saw the play in German with Romanian subtitles. This made it an interesting viewing experience. I sort of felt the absurdism was taken a bit over the top at certain times, but I was happy to see a play. On our way to the play, amidst the falling snow, there was a Serbian band playing country music in Piata Victoriei (Freedom Square)... The types of things that help remind you are in a foreign country.

We recently found, in the enormous mall in Timisoara, a Falafel King, which has the best shoarmas, shawarmas, shwarmas (however the heck they are spelled) we have experienced in Romania. Truly delicious.

It is becoming a slightly frustrating minor detail that I am having to adjust to that, often in Timisoara when we are talking to someone in a store or shop or restaurant, people will start talking to us in English instead of continuing the brief conversation in Romanian. These are very short exchanges in which either of us could easily speak in Romanian for the duration of. Granted, we probably mispronounce something that triggers it, but one mispronounced word shouldn't necessitate a change of language. *Sigh.*

Recently, we have been watching some older films that we have gotten from other volunteers or found online. After having seen James Stewart in several movies now, I have decided he was a fantastic actor. Also, after seeing "Fahrenheit 451," I realize how horribly unoriginal "Equilibrium" was...though I think it was the better of the two films (I'm sure the novel "Fahrenheit 451" is fantastic, though).

Discussing movies reminds me how I recently discovered that Sandra Bullock was nominated for, not one, but TWO Golden Globes. Marisa told me this. I simultaneously lost all remaining respect I had for the Golden Globes and died.

I'm pretty sure that all of my faithful readers have noted that I have not posted a new blog since last year (pun intended)... But, seriously...it's been a long time. I'll try to be more timely. No promises. I'm assimilating all too well to the Romanian concept of time, and so I promise to post another one "maine" (tomorrow) ;)

La Multi Ani! (Happy New Year!)

until he moved to a zoo in Germany. Then he was Baldy Waldy and looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. This is what you get from me. I tend to check BBC News three or more times a week. One of those times I look at all the obscure stuff like bald German bears and the oldest living person and other things that spark my more absurd interests.

We went on a field trip with Marisa's and my eighth graders (and four of my seventh grade girls) yesterday. It was an interesting trip. Four-ish hours on a bus with adults who only speak Romanian and thirty or so kids who, by and large, only speak Romanian or teenager, which means even the advanced students were a bit more concerned with being in there social world than talking with their cool American teachers most of the time. It also meant for WAY too much traditional Romanian music at unhealthy volumes with the kids singing along. But, it was actually a sort of fun time. The landscape was beautiful, as we drove into the mountains.

In Lipova, we stopped at a 700+ year old Catholic Cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. I have to say, even for the non-religious, there is something beautiful about ancient, huge cathedrals with lots of beautiful artwork in them.

We then went to Maneasa, a tourist town/city with a single winding road through it - as it rests in between the mountains. We made our way up to the ruins of an old hospital next to a stream (very small river) running down from the mountains where they would use the hot springs to treat patients. We then went up to the cave where the water was coming from. More beauty.

Odd cultural chaperoning note: We climbed up a hill over somewhat dangerous rocks on a stream and up a small waterfall with thirty or so kids. I'm not saying it was dangerous enough to face death, but if a kid had fallen, would he or she have been hurt...potentially a lot? Yes. We also left the kids for an hour and a half in Maneasa while the adults went and had lunch. Odd. I also don't think we ever did a full count. We just asked if everyone was there and trusted the kids to tell the truth. Very odd.

I had some clatita (pancakes/crepes) with chocolate in them. They were nummy (yes...I did).

At my school's Halloween party, I was surprised by the number and the quality of some of costumes. I was also surprised to see that nearly all of the kids had carved a pumpkin - albeit many of the pumpkins were green and not orange. Decorating for the party was a fun time of coloring bats and pumpkins and hanging them about with crepe paper. And, I was quite delighted to see that the idea of revealing costumes for girls has really not taken over Romania (I have sadly been witness to what the holiday means even for young teenage girls in America...disturbing). The party was a great time, and I learned two new Romanian dances (too bad I now don't ever want to hear Romanian music again (I'm exaggerating...a little)).

I have to say that my students' musical interests perplex me. Teenagers enjoying classical, Christian and/or traditional music is a very new experience. And, if they like "dance" music, it is European or Romanian dance music...which is not hip-hop really, but electronic or techno-ish. A very new idea from the CONSTANT hip-hop/popular love of American youth - with your occasional kids who like some type of rock. Interesting, though.

Romanian hospitality, however, still shocks me at times. Last weekend I was up north at Jimmy's site working on Spuneti! and his friend invited us over two nights in a row and fed us. One night sausages and beef steak (!!!!) and the next rata cu varza (duck cooked with vegetables and cabbage/saurkraut (mmmmmm). Colleagues are consistently bringing in various foods for all to enjoy. My directoara has offered to drive us to and from the Timisoara airport whenever we need to go there because transportation there is difficult and/or expensive...apparently. Even my students always offer to share their foods with me - sometimes being the last piece of candy or gum or something.

Yet...hospitality aside...Romanian work efficiency and timeliness may not quite be up to standards we are used to. It seems that some mistake was made with some sort of water piping in our apartment block or something - as they have dug up a sizable trench (even having to dig through the paved lot they put down) to lay some new pipe or something. They started this project nearly a month ago, and for the last week or two we have had to daily step over the large hole to walk down the driveway. Our neighbors with cars have been unable to park their cars in the parking lot for the same length of time. Plus, our refrigerator has been running at medium-cold...with no freezer whatsoever. We have called a few times on it now over the course of a week and a half. It is still running at a medium-cold and no one has been over to look at it. It's a manageable inconvenience at the moment; we just have to eat everything we cook and get our meat the day we want it instead of earlier. But still...it's a bit annoying...and the phrase, "Maine" (or "Tomorrow") has come to mean "Uneori" (or "Sometime")...or at least that is what we have found.

"Transylmania" is a movie coming out soon. The synopsis for the film: "A motley group of college students embark on the wildest, sexiest, most outrageous semester abroad ever at Razvan University. Located deep in the heart of the "cursed land" of Transylvania, Romania in a centuries-old castle, Razvan isn't your typical institution of higher learning – and the black leather-clad professors, three-foot-tall dean, instruction in crucifix-wielding, and topless vampiresses lurking in dark corners are just the start." ...............*DEEP sigh*

Something odd to get used to as a Peace Corps Volunteer: Having to rely upon public transportation and its sometimes odd schedules to get pretty much anywhere. Yet, I can't say that I really miss driving itself.

It's been cold and rainy a lot here lately. Apparently, Romanian fall means cold and rainy, and the spring is warming and dry. So, it's sort of the inverse of Michigan fall/spring...which makes me sort of sad because fall has always been my favorite season, and lots of rain makes that difficult.

I love gradually clearing fog on a foggy day and in the distance seeing the dark shape of hazed mountains looming, but I hate having to drive past the sight more often than I am able to stop and admire it.

I hate mud, but I love puddles.

I love fallen autumn leaves, but I miss the vibrant oranges and reds.

Something I'm coming to terms with: The, potentially, necessary evil of the internet slowly killing us all.

The man wakes restlessly from dreams of another time and place. The room is illuminated a pale gray by the sunless morning light. He roles and finds the travel alarm clock. The time is a bit earlier than he anticipated. Still, he decides to turn the alarm off and get up early. He rises slowly from the bed so as to not wake her. She shifts, but her eyes remain closed. He pulls on the gray sweatpants and slips his feet into the slippers oddly labeled "Sport." He adjusts the door so that it is cracked open and meanders to the balcony door and looks at the morning.

There is a yellowness floating amidst the gray dawn. The sky seems impatient for blue—never happy with the indecision of dawn or dusk. The row of houses across the empty lot are not quite yet able to show off their vibrant colors without the sun's help. The lot's grass is still sleeping silently. A cat sits atop the concrete fence separating the lot and the houses, lazily cleaning himself—lacking any concern regarding the world around him. In the distance lies fields and three large smokestacks - living vestiges of a time grayer than the morning.

Weeks before, this landscape etched a smile on the man's bearded face. Now the corners of his mouth only think about curling on his cleanly shaved face. The landscape hasn't changed, but it has become norm. Upon first moving here, everything the man saw had a hazy glow to it - as if he were walking in a perpetual dream. But now, the haziness ends in the mornings with the rising sun, and his dreams exist only behind closed eyelids.

Still—as he pores the milk into his cereal bowl and smells the coffee brewing, a grin creeps onto his face. Despite the growing normalcy of his surroundings, the seeds of all the newness that had planted themselves within him are just budding, and though it remains to be seen what type of fruit they will bear, the man awaits them in this decreasingly foreign land.

…I felt like being creative…

It’s a rather odd, amazing and somewhat amusing feeling to have the status of celebrity. That is what Marisa and I have here in our villages. While the stares have decreased some, they have not ceased. In fact, the status may even have increased a bit because, now that people know who we are, they seem to whisper a bit more about us when we pass. Or we have students approach us from across the street to say hi and the few other things they can in English. Then they break out in Romanian that we sometimes, but less and less every week it seems, have difficulty following.

An odd moment: A local police officer stopped us the other day and asked where we were going. We told him we were going to the cofetarie (a sort of coffee shop/bakery of sweets). He told us that we must go to the one in Marisa’s village instead because it was better and then offered us a ride there in his car—as it would have been a 30+ minute walk. This is how busy the police are here. More odd: He motioned for me to not put on my seat-belt (though I did anyway) and was driving over 90kmph at a couple of points. Even more odd: He took us through the poor side of the neighboring village and started talking negatively about Gypsies/Rroma. It was an interesting and uncomfortable little excursion. The cofetarie was very good.

We found ground turkey! (Have yet to find ground beef in our villages.) We made tacos last night, and it took over two hours because we had to make the seasoning and tortillas from scratch. Though they weren’t the best tacos in the world, I liked them. Marisa did not because everything was just a bit off. Ah, well. Tonight: turkey burgers!

Marisa made brownies last weekend. They were delicious.

I played football (soccer) last week with some colleagues and other men from around the village. I, and they, quickly realized how terrible I was (I guess over seven years of hiatus from a sport can decrease your abilities…who knew?). Luckily, they invited me back, so I will perhaps slowly be able to work my way up to okay. Cross your fingers for me.

Two cultural difference with teaching:

1. Teachers here yell at students. Not just when the class gets really out of control or noisy, but seemingly constantly. To the point that it seems to have little to no affect on the middle school aged students. They also yell for their students to “shut up,” which makes the students think it is okay to use. I’m working at breaking them of that.

2. Students here write in PERFECT cursive. It is required throughout school. Not only is it required, they can lose points or get lower grades for simply messing up single letters. It’s a bit extreme. They also have to write in specific colored pens for specific subjects. I have made some of my third and fourth graders quite happy by just telling them they can pick what color to write in (odd).

The weather is finally getting cooler, but it’s strange. Here the days are still 70-80 degrees Fahrenheit, but the nights have gotten down to almost freezing. Typically, the temperature range would not be so pronounced. It makes for a cold walk to school or a hot walk from school.

I leave you with a proverb in Romanian: “Ai carte, ai parte.”

Magazin. The word for shop or store in Romanian...in general...but not exactly. In a city, you can find so many magazinii (plural) you could never count them all. They're the 7-11s of Romania, but not. They are smaller and no two have the same things. One has a lot of produce and perhaps no personal sundries. Another has clothes and cleaning supplies with very little, if any, produce. Many have automatic coffee/(espresso) machines; some just have a form of coffee makers. They're all different. We were told in Targoviste the history of magazinii. Supposedly they date back to Greek and Roman times when people didn't want to travel long distances to markets to get items such as bread, so small "shops" were created throughout larger cities that sold food items more conveniently for all neighborhoods. The advent of magazinii in Romania really broke once Communism fell in '89 (since prior to that food barely existed in the larger markets even). Now, they are everywhere. We have located six in our small village so far (and there could be more). We have been trying to balance our visits between four of them (produce from one, chicken from one, bread and snacks from one and everything else from the large one because it has more). Such difficulties here, I know.

We are quickly approaching a month at site, and it still doesn't feel like our home. Not that I expected it to this quickly. It is probably a good sign, however, that we feel a bit more familiar here...that more and more people are beginning to recognize us...that the stares are just a tad bit less common. Progress...nice and slow...Peace Corps style.

We visited the local butcher. They didn't know what chicken was (sort of...they knew but refused to acknowledge thus (kidding...but they didn't have any)) and were barely aware that beef could exist on its own without pork. Due to Marisa's love for pork, we have not returned.

I got my first haircut in Romania yesterday (I didn't necessarily need it, but the sides and back of my head grow much faster than the top...for some reason unbeknown to me). I managed to communicate what I wanted pretty well. Sadly, I had to use more gestures than words at one point. Cultural difference, you don't tip stylists here; she laughed at me for trying to give her back a couple of lei.

My first two weeks of school have consisted of little work overall. I have helped move a fair amount of desks and chairs. I have helped to hang up various English grammar or vocabulary posters about my classroom (having my own classroom is very exciting as it is not normal in my school...the teachers usually move from class to class and the students stay stationary). There is even a giant, detailed poster of the UK and Ireland in the back of my room, which will be very helpful when I show the students where I am from.........

After much searching in many Romanian bookstores (called librarii, which was confusing at first), I found a copy of "Slaughterhouse-Five" in Romanian ("Abatorul Cinci"). Very exciting because I kept finding various Vonnegut novels, but not this one. My goal is to be able to read it before returning to America. Keep your fingers crossed.

We visited Castle Hunaide last weekend, which houses the Banat (the region of Romanian we are in) History and Environmental Museums. The castle is a pretty awesome site from the outside, and while the size on the inside is equally as impressive (I don't think we were in even a third of the castle and visited four of the five museums, it has all been remodeled and doesn't look all that old, which was a bit of a disappointment. Very interesting, though, were artifacts from various finds of Neolithic man in the region. There were numerous ancient tools and weapons, a boat carved from an entire tree trunk (the brochures make them seem very excited about the boat) and, most impressive, an ancient altar chamber with the head of a cow (they worshiped cows back then; who would have guessed?).

Marisa officially has a bike (and helmet and tire pump and bike lock and basket). Yes...a helmet. A, what I think of as silly, regulation of the Peace Corps is that all Volunteers who use a bike must wear a helmet. If not, they will be sent home. No jokes here. It seems to me a bit overt, but maybe less Volunteers are hurt this way...I can't be sure. Either way, she thinks that I am jealous because she has a bike, and I am...until she puts on her helmet. Bike helmets, no matter who you are, look silly.

Received our first packages this week (thanks, Bob!), and we officially have a few more books and our winter stuff (though we aren't sure how much of it we'll need because we keep being told that winters are milder here than in the past...we'll see) and a few things to be used in school. It was exciting...mainly because it meant nothing was lost or stolen :) And so, whether it feels it just yet or not, I suppose receiving a package makes it all the more official: We're "home." Now if I could just get rid of those darn quotation marks around it!

It’s official. Marisa and I are Peace Corps Volunteers. Sworn in by the Chargé de Affair from the U.S. Embassy in Romania, who gave a very nice speech.

After the ceremony, I felt different. There was a feeling in my gut I haven’t had in a long time… A stomachache. Because I had two glasses of Coke during the after-ceremony refreshments (I haven’t had that much Coke in a while).

Then, Saturday we left Targoviste on the same twelve-hour trip we made about a month ago. This time, we had no return ticket. And so, we are “home.” It still requires, for the time being, quotes because it is hard for it to feel like home only a few days in (and I’m sure it will take a while to). We only know our way to the key locations. We know only a few people. We can have, at best, semi-intelligible conversations with neighbors or people in the community. Yet another surreal realization/experience brought to you by the Peace Corps, and yet another exceptionally exciting one, in your humble narrator’s experience.

There is a little allusion for you all, and a purposeful one. We visited the Peace Corps Romania Headquarters last week, and there, in the Volunteer Lounge, I was blessed to discover in the open library Crime and Punishment, The Road and A Doll’s House, which I was quick to remove for personal enjoyment.

I’m currently almost finished with The Road (the first reading I’ve been to really do all summer!). I recommend it if you’re looking for a great, disturbing and depressing read. I’m quite certain the movie cannot possibly capture the majesty of what I have thus far read (primarily because the dialogue is fantastic and a bit abstract). Sometimes, I hate Hollywood.

I had my first soarma (pronounced shor-muh) the other day in Bucuresti (that’s how it’s spelt here). It was fantastic, huge and a bit overwhelming. I recommend finding one if ever in Romania. Marisa may not, but she doesn’t like mici (pork/beef sausages), sarmale (stuffed cabbage), anything with red meat here or pretty much any traditional Romanian foods…soooo…

Something strange about our village: We were walking around tonight, and we noticed that all of the benches face away from the roads…? In thinking about it, I feel it has to do with the cultural difference of community. Here everyone knows everyone. Everyone talks to everyone. So…when they’re walking down the sidewalk, they stop and talk to one another. I could be wrong about this, but it makes sense. It also makes benches facing the road make less sense. Why are they facing the road? So you can watch cars go by? Of what relevance is that? Stare at manmade machines flying by versus sit and wait for one of your neighbors or a friend to pass by so you can catch up with them. Individuality versus community. The latter, in my mind, makes more sense because it embraces sociation, of which we would be nothing without.

Three other notes about our town: One, barking dogs behind fences are scarier than random vagabond dogs lying about every ten to fifteen feet. Two, old men were drinking this morning (Sunday) at 8:30am across from the church, in which you could hear the chanting of the priest. Three, there really are a lot of teenage boys flying around on mopeds and four-wheelers.

I know that, awhile back, I mentioned the lack of personal space (bubbles) here. I’d like to revisit the topic, however…in more depth. The concept goes beyond merely having a bunica (grandmother) touch your arm or wrist with kindness or seeing children hand-in-hand with their parents at ages beyond the norm based on American standards. I have grown more and more accustomed to the double-cheek kiss—sometimes with men. I have stopped noticing (as much) young couples on park benches necking (the girl often sitting on the boys’ laps). I have stopped raising my eyebrow at, what looks like, a sixteen-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand. One day, a friendly, intoxicated man bought me a beer and kissed me on the cheeks about a dozen times. I have seen teenage boys walking around with their arms around each other’s waists or arm-in-arm, and homosexuality is still VERY taboo here…so it isn’t that. This is just how Romanians are. It’s a bit odd to see still at times. But, it’s also very interesting, and I think it ties closely into the community mindset.

Something strongly reinforced the other day in a discussion session by two PC Staff members who lived during/through the “revolution” of 1989: History books will never, ever capture the truth that lies in living history, and creative texts based on history—no matter how moving, no matter if fictionalized memories or if they are vastly researched—are unable convey the raw emotion of a memory. But—as a creative writer—one can hope.

I will end this time with a cliché this same session made pretty visceral: No matter how down things are, they could always be worse, especially if you’re an American.

P.S. (Since I wrote this the other day.) We just had a Romanian vegetarian pizza...complete with peas, green beans, carrots, potato, onion and mushroom. Who in the world puts onion and mushroom on a pizza?! And, of course, they brought out the ketchup for us too (Romanians love ketchup on their pizza...LOTS of it).

According to my cell phone last week, I was in Serbia for about an hour or so. I wasn’t in Serbia. My cell phone is a liar. Or it was confused by the fact that Serbia was merely a few hundred meters away across the Danube as we passed through the mountains. It sounds prettier than it was.

No it doesn’t. It was gorgeous.

Still. It was rather odd at that moment to know that across the river was another country that I have not been too. Rather odd. Rather surreal. I have many of these moments here. Everything seems calm and still. I feel very centered (I meditate now (…wait)). Then, suddenly, I realize I’m in Romania. Surrounded by people I can barely communicate with. Thousands of miles from anything I once knew as home. This feeling would likely terrify many people. For me, it fills me and erupts in a smile on my face. A smile that would likely make anyone around either return my smile or stare and wonder, “What’s that American smiling about? Americans are weird. Then again, this is the first American I’ve seen. Maybe I shouldn’t judge them all by this one. No. No, I will. Americans are weird.”

Our country director recently brought to my attention the obvious that I think most trainees are too busy right now to really wrap their heads around: Eight and a half weeks ago, we entered a foreign country and the second day here the Peace Corps made us move in with a complete stranger(s), and last weekend they sent us away with complete strangers to stay for three and a half days in the place we will be living for the next two years. A bit crazy.

Last Thursday was also the first time in my life I returned “home” to a place that doesn’t feel like my home from a place that I just saw for the first time that will be my home for two years…in two and a half weeks. This is also crazy.

On the other hand, our site is pretty amazing—though the landscape looks oddly familiar. There is a pond in one of our towns that reminded me, quite a lot actually, of a pond not far from our house in Bay City. Still, the towns are very clean, more free of dogs than Targoviste, pretty close to Timisoara (we drove into the city one day of our visit), and all of the people that we’ve meet there so far are extremely friendly and very excited for us to return. There is a nice restaurant in the town we live in. We live very close to the local police station, which is reassuring, but also unnecessary because the only crimes happening there are teenagers speeding on mopeds.

Timisoara is a beautiful city. An ancient fortress with a museum. A gorgeous cathedral overlooking the city center. At the opposite end of that center the National Theatre and Opera House. Somewhere in that center, below a building with damage from WWI is a McDonalds. A monument dedicated to those who died in the 1989 revolution (Timisoara is where the revolution started (something I thought of literally at this moment: we are currently staying in the city where the revolution essentially ended with Ceausescu’s execution and will be staying pretty close to the city where that end began…interesting)). Parks EVERYWHERE. Many with intricate flower arrangements that they apparently change a few times a year. Two malls (though we only saw one so far). We also learned that they were going to try and install a subway system a while back, but after the construction began, they discovered that much of the city is built on the ruins of ancient civilizations. And a gelataria (Marisa’s personal favorite).

Marisa recently shared with me the fact that she knows the names of all of the Backstreet Boys. She claims this knowledge is only because of Jocelyn. I don’t know if I’m buying it, and this knocks her down a notch on the music elitist scale. She’s know a B-minor. Jocelyn, if you’re to blame, you need to speak up.

I recently watched Public Enemies. It was a fine time. Johnny Depp delivers, as usual, though I’m bored of Christian Bale outside of his Batman costume (Crips! Wasn’t the new Terminator pretty lurid? Yes… I used “crips.” This is a PG-rated blog). I could get nitpicky about a couple of moments, but overall I enjoyed the film. I especially have a growing respect for Billy Crudup (though my adoration for the man may have much to do with the fact that he played Katurian Katurian Katurian on Broadway, but he’s really good, too!).

There are some Romanians that seem to litter WAY too much (I guess somethings don't change wherever you are at). We were at this beautiful location in the mountains along a rocky stream the other day, and it could have been truly breathtaking if I hadn’t turned away from the stream and seen an enormous pile of plastic containers, papers, broken glass, etc. Sad.

We’ve now passed through the village at the beginning of Borat twice.

I was excited when I looked up “ambiguous” in Romanian and found “echivoc” because it’s an equally odd word in this language. I was disappointed with my language instructor explained that “echivoc” isn’t a word and that “ambiguous” in Romanian is “ambigos.” Sigh.

Marisa bought a very cute dress the other day, which makes her more cute than normal.

Targoviste has a zoo. We went to it this last weekend and quickly became terribly depressed by the tiny cages containing the bears. One was stalking back and forth in madness. Another one was splashing incessantly in its tiny watering basin—mad in a different form. I’m pretty sure that the male peacock would not be able to fan out his tail in his cage. But most of the other animals seemed to have enough space. It was pretty weird to see guinea pigs, seagulls and rabbits in zoo cages though.

It is bedtime, and so I shall end here.

Our thoughts go out to Cow; we hope he soon returns. We also hope no other kitties suffer the cage on his behalf.

All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players.

;)

I'm memorizing it in Romanian for a trainee talent show... I'm a geek!

So… We found out where we will be living and teaching for our two years here. It will be in two small villages not far from Timisoara! I will have to commute from the one village to the other for work. Marisa will work in the village we live in. We’re incredibly excited! My school is looking for a theatre club and Marisa’s school wants her to help with a school newspaper! Though, they also both want us to help out with athletic programs… SO… We’ll be refreshing ourselves on some of the sports we played when we were younger, which could prove to be interesting. Either way, that’s exciting in it’s own way too. We just hope they aren’t looking for experts in that area…lol.

We went to Sinaia this weekend (our first weekend to travel)! It’s a beautiful smaller town in the mountains not far from Targoviste. We went by bus and traveled up winding roads in the middle of woods and valleys leading to the mountain town. It was pretty amazing (though the bus was uncomfortably warm). We also visited Peles Castle!!!!!! It was beautiful with a gorgeous view—clouds were clearing the mountains in the distance—though not all that old.

Let’s talk about trash: In most Romania households, there is never more than one trashcan (usually in the kitchen…and it’s small). This has been one of those small cultural adjustment things. No trash in the bathroom, and we’ve had to buy trash bags for our bedroom. This is normal. We’ve found you tend to produce less trash because of this. The streets in Targoviste are not clean, however, so it leaves one wondering how much is put there. And then there is the oxymoronic tendency of there being community trashcans hanging on lampposts or electric poles (two or three per block), but I suppose this isn’t all that different from a city/town in the U.S.

Dracula: There is no such thing. Vampires: Nope…or at least not as we see them commonly portrayed. In Romanian, the closest ideology/word for vampire is “strugoi,” but a strugoi is person that has risen after having died because their soul was unable to pass on to either heaven or hell (often blamed on a sinful life (so sort of purgatory)). They then wander the earth—immortal and unaging because the soul preserves the body. Dracula is Bram Stoker’s creation. The historical figure that he is based upon—Vlad Tepes III—was a defender of Christian beliefs (that’s right). Though, his nickname was “Vlad the Impaler” due to his chosen method of dealing with his enemies—impaling them (rather gruesomely). He was considered in many circles a hero of his country because he fought long wars against the Saxons and the Turks (pushing them off, but never truly winning) and strove to uphold Christian beliefs. Though in other circles he was seen as a particularly ruthless and violent ruler because he would kill whole communities of Turks or Saxons as he went through them toward battle (impaling men, women and children alike). He also would invite subjects with differing religious beliefs to his castles (one of his primary ones being in Targoviste) and impale them all. Because of these methods, he was often referred to by his enemies as Dracula or Dracu—which translate into “son of the dragon/devil” (the devil being thought of as a dragon by many in those times). Bran, the castle in Brasov that is the celebrated “Dracula’s Castle” was not his, nor is there proof that Vlad was ever there, though some say it’s possible he once visited it. So…the whole Dracula and vampire thing does not exist, and what does exist is for tourist purposes. Some Romanians don’t like that this is the first thought that comes to people’s minds when thinking of the country or Transylvania, and others see it as a bit of a comical farce that they try to ignore whenever possible—especially because there is no real historical relevance to it whatsoever. Sorry to burst bubbles.

It’s been raining a lot here.

Well that’s all for this time. I don’t expect to have another entry up for a couple of weeks at the earliest—as we have preparation for and a visit to our site(s) next week.

I leave you with this:

Lumea-ntreaga e-o scena si toti oamenii-s actori.

Am avut sa fiu in Romania pentru patru si jumate saptamani acum si a avut sa fie multe lucra si distractiv.

(I have been in Romania for four and a half weeks now, and it has been a lot of work and fun.)

Check out my complex sentence in Romanian! I know that some of my avid readers (seeing as how this is my first blog in more than three weeks, I’m not sure avid is the right word, but I know some of you check it religiously (I am your new god…yeah!) and maybe have my last entry memorized (get a life!)) are impressed and jealous. I would be.

The dogs are still running about in Targoviste. Though, I was recently enlightened as to how the fate of the dogs has become thus: Back at the advent of communism and the construction of the block apartments, the lovely government demolished everyone’s homes and forced them into the apartments. Many of these people owned dogs, but were unable to fit them in their tiny apartments with them. So, the dogs stayed on the outskirts of the cities, and homeless and numerous as they were, they multiplied and ran rampant. There is some communist dog history for you. It’s particularly sad at the school we are at for PST because there is a mother dog with several depressingly adorable little puppies that will grow to be depressing adult dogs…*sigh*.

And now...I give you a subpar poem with an overtly obvious title about...

A Train Ride to Bals, Romania

by me

air conditioned air aerates the train

“This is a nice train” says our language instructor

“We are lucky”

she wrangles nine Americans into a single cabin

our mother for the trip

I pity her

blue seats, blue walls, blue poles, blue skies outside, several blue shirts

this coordination cannot have been planned

tractors and horses and carts be damned

there are cars in fields to my right

and farmers farming in swim trunks

behind the cars and swim trunks lie hills

behind the hills lie mountains

behind the mountains lie valleys

(I think…I can’t see anything else)

awing

hold on…

a creek

a bridge

a heard of goats? (yes)

back in the blue innards

a man wears:

worn hat

curiosity (nine Americans, no doubt)

dirtied polo

track pants tucked into black dress socks

dress clogs

my head spins

before/on the hills lies a forest

before the forest lie motionless oil rigs

skeletons of industrial plants raising boney hands in the air

waving hellos/goodbyes to the blue machine passing them by

or fists of fury at the gods of a revolution that was doomed by its own progress

hold on…

out of the track pants comes a cellular phone

my confused stereotypes disconnect at their already stretched threads

my inability to understand his words translates beyond them, beyond the tin-roofed, shaky-looking home to my right with a car in its yard and satellite TV dish on its rickety wall, beyond the towering cement block apartments that cast shadows on the surrounding town, beyond the glimmering steeples of the town’s church, beyond the horse and cart at the train station, beyond the pink-booted, yellow-skirted, tank-topped teenage girl walking alone across the tracks…

culture shock sets in

In Bals and a small village a bit outside of Bals, we were treated fantastically by Lee and Amanda (two current PCVs). Bals is a small town of 20,000 or so. One of the days there, we helped Lee’s “seniors” practice for what is called their Bacaloriat—a test that gets them into various levels of college. Their English was, by and large, extraordinarily impressive. The girls feel in love with Marisa. The boys (and a few of the girls) fell in love with my Frisbee ;) The next day in Amanda’s small village, we picked up trash with her middle school students. Most of them could speak very little English beyond telling you their name and/or age (and the village is less than thirty minutes from Bals). This did not stop us from playing football (the real kind) and ping-pong (without a table) with them. They, too, fell in love with Marisa and me by association. Marisa turned 24 in Bals; Amanda made a cake with nectarines on it that was delicious. The trip was an awesome experience—the best we’d had here until that point (and they haven’t done Integrated Field Visits (what they called the trip) for the last few years…they should continue them), and so, thank you SO much Lee and Amanda!

Let’s see… I have played several games of ultimate Frisbee over the last couple of weeks... Woot! Romanians are confused and intrigued by Frisbees, which is delightful. One game in the park last week, some owned dogs—after watching us play a good game and a half—discovered that Frisbees can be for them too, which was extremely annoying and caused the game to end…grrrr to the tame dogs…

We found an internet café that is very reasonably priced, but it’s also hot, noisy, smoke-filled and has a hole in a pitch-black room for a toilet…soooo…

We also found a café which has espressos, lattes, macchiato and mochas!!! …though they are a bit expensive…*sigh*…

The language really is improving. I wrote the intro sentence without looking at my dictionary. We understand more and more of our conversations with our gazda, and have used the dictionary less and less. Encouraging.

The last two weeks have been insanely busy (which is why I didn’t have an update on here sooner) with Practicum. This means we have been teaching (and having to create lesson plans for the teaching) every morning and have had Romanian in the afternoons, which sucks because I really don’t absorb as much in the afternoons…especially after having to expel the energy necessary for teaching in the morning (coffee helps a little). Last week, Marisa and I taught former fourth graders (and one third grader) with Bang Jin—a fellow trainee. The children, once again, fell in love with Marisa (it’s getting a bit old at this point), but I was able to win them over with Herman the hedgehog (our puppet that we brought along…how fateful) and high-fives. I taught them family in English. Marisa taught them music genres and instruments. Bang Jin taught them weather. It was a pretty good time, all in all, and one of the students invited Marisa and I (by “Marisa and I,” I mean “Marisa”) to her home this last weekend, and we went…

It was a very nice time. I barbequed and drank beer with the dad while Marisa played card games and checkers with Iulia. We ate far too much food (a fantastic Turkish dish with egg plant and lots of mici (which is a traditional Romanian sausage of beef and pork…Marisa didn’t eat this of course)), had the best ice cream in Romania (so far anyhow), I pulled out my Frisbee (it’s my thing right now) and we celebrated our year anniversary (I have been married for a year…strange and surreal and wonderful) with champagne and some sort of sugar cookie-wafer-cracker things. They want to have us back; it’s probable.

Michael Jackson died. You all know this. However, so did our ten year old students in Romanian, and they knew who he was, some of his songs, and hugged Marisa last Thursday because she had played “Billy Jean” earlier in the week for them and thought she would be sad. We feel that this represents an insane, and unreal even, level of fame. No wonder he was a bit…strange.

This week is high school teaching. I have 10th grade, and Marisa has 9th (they split up all the groups from last week). It’s a bit more challenging, but I’m trying to get them to have fun (I’m teaching them, or trying to, how theatre is a part of our daily lives). I made the laugh quite a bit Monday by showing them various ways I could be teaching the class. One of my students had a birthday yesterday, and he brought in liquor filled chocolates for my colleagues, myself and the rest of the students (another minor culture shock moment). They were good!

And next week, we find out where we will be living for the two years…!!! So…expect another (probably shorter) update then! Though, I may have to be a bit vague about where it is depending on whether it is a city, town or village.

Happy 4th to you all! We’re (all the trainees) hosting a celebration in the park for our gazdas… It should be interesting!

P.S. Asher (an emo/indie/weird/gothic/amusing fellow trainee) is awesome, but refuses to use our umbrellas...jerk!

Life is often full of small regrets, though it shouldn’t be—as regretting gets us nowhere. Still, we often think things like: “I wish I hadn’t said that to that person,” “I wish I would have done this yesterday,” or “That reaction was stupid.” Instead of thinking these things, we should attempt to address or correct them. There are other moments where we find ourselves regretting larger things—life decisions. Here in Targoviste, Romania, thousands of miles away from everything I know, surrounded by thousands of people I am unable to communicate with in any adept manner, I find myself feeling the direct inverse of this.

In fact, I have yet to experience any form of regret—big or small. There was a moment of heightened awareness of the venture I was undertaking on the airplane, and in that moment, real, true fear entered my consciousness, but it was ephemeral. And now, I’m relishing the experience of the unknown and the surreal feeling of being in Romania now and for two more years.

There are dogs here. They are everywhere, and they are homeless. Don’t run around them; you could be bitten. I tend to say hello to them—hoping it makes them less tempted. They don’t seem to notice. Many of them look sad. Some of them look scary. Some look adorable. I think they sit around watching us thinking things like: “There are some new people. … Can you understand them? … Me neither. … They sound foreign. … Should we bite them? … True; they probably are diseased. Let’s go lay down in the dirt.” I think, perhaps, Romanian dogs are smarter than American ones. Who wants to be cooped up in a small apartment all of the time? Or chained to a post? Romanian dogs run free and eat leftovers and befriend whoever they want whenever they want (I’m going to be looking for my own personal Dirk at some point).

The mosquitoes here are different as well. They’re smarter, slier and more patient. Unlike mosquitoes in America, they wait. They coyly make their way into apartments during the day and hide in dark places. They don’t try to bite yet; they wait until you’re asleep (sound like something familiar…they aren’t…they’re mosquitoes…don’t be silly). I personally am impressed by their methods. It takes a lot of self-control to be patient for an entire day when your lifespan is less than a week.

They don’t have shower curtains here and often have carpet in the bathroom, so showers are done squatting. Though, our gazdas (hosts) in Targoviste have installed curtains for us.

Breakfast is big. Lunch is medium. Dinner is small.

The water is clean, but the pipes are old. Thus, we have a filter.

Pillows are harder.

Several television stations are constantly playing American movies with Romanian subtitles.

Curant (a superstition regarding having a door and window open simultaneously) is dangerous to your health.

Obscenities in English are a hobby of the children and teens here because they watch our television and movies and want to use the language (apparently they focus on these words).

Personal space-bubbles do not exist for Romanians (good thing mine has long-since ceased to have relevance through theatre).

Hospitality and friendliness are expressed overtly here, which is nice and a bit overwhelming in a way (You want to help with something? No. You’re a guest).

Americans stand out like sore thumbs here, but are celebrities among school children.

And yet, there are many things that I don’t find myself having to make major adjustments to: the food is good (albeit different), you can get pretty much anything you need here in the stores (often for cheaper…though the quality isn’t always as good and we have less money), there is hot water in the city (they call it a town, but it’s about the size of Bay City, with more people), they have electricity, internet isn’t impossible to find (some gazdas have it in their homes), taxi drivers are crazy drivers, they have coffee!!! (though it’s a bit more bitter and often has grounds in it (our gazda bought a coffee maker for me, though, so now it’s filtered)), Peace Corps Pre-Service Training is like intensive college…very intensive college from time to time, among other things.

Our gazda is terrific, though she smothers us a bit at times. It’s all right though—as it’s helping us with the language. She has adopted us as her new son and daughter because her children have moved to other countries. She is a retired widow who loves soap operas and, right now, making us happy. She has given us her bedroom—!!!—and sleeps in the living room.

Targoviste is interesting. It used to be the capital of Romania—or perhaps a state within Romania…? This is where Drakul’s actual castle was, not Transylvania. We will be checking that out soon. Ceausescu (the former Communist dictator) and his “lovely” wife were executed here (less than five minutes from our house, actually). People aren’t allowed on the military grounds, however. There are various ruins throughout the city.

Learning a new language is interesting. You find yourself celebrating the miniscule: I can say the mosquito is dead (Tan-tur este mort)! I can explain that we are going to go to the store and get a phone card! Etc. And you amuse Romanians with these celebrations. Yet…it is sometimes frustrating to not be able to explain the most simple things, or to know that you are explaining them in the most obscure and broken methods: “Today…school…study how…a table, the table.” Or explaining in an actual, ungrammatically correct sentence: “In four or five weeks, we have more Romanian.” But…it’s coming…slowly.

Marisa isn’t so skinny here, but people think she’s really skinny for an American (mica…as our gazda calls her).

Frisbee is alien to Romanians, which is why I brought one!

Theatre (teatru) is popular…YEAH!!! There are two or three located in Targoviste, and I’ve been told that theatre clubs are a popular extracurricular activity to start in schools.

My conclusion after a week here: Learning a new language is stressful at times, but exhilarating at others. The cultural ingratiation is awkward at times, but exhilarating at others. Marisa is still beautiful, and we are glad we are doing this!

Irony: How long have I felt the need to be anywhere but this place? And yet on the eve of my final night here, I find myself a bit nostalgic...a bit sad.

It's logical. I've been here for my entire life. I've been in the Tri-Cities for over seven of those years.

And yet...welling up inside of me is this unexplainable anticipation. It's like stage fright on the grandest scale, and when it hits, I know well enough to embrace it.

In light of this anticipation...this crazy energy like nothing I've felt in my life up to this point... I leave all of those I know here in the U.S. with this, as it seems fitting.

"Leaving"

As the lights come up, we see two shadowy figures with very large heads. ONE is seated on a stool holding some type of plant; TWO is pacing and holding a small box under one arm.

ONE: Would you stop your pacing?

TWO: I can't! I just can't!

ONE: It's going to be fine. We're going to be fine.

TWO: So you say. So you say. Over and over.

ONE: So I know.

TWO: You know nothing. You only know what I know. Which is nothing.

ONE: That's not true at all. I know we're leaving this place. I know we will not return.

TWO: (finally stops pacing) Which...is nothing!

ONE: You're being dramatic.

TWO: I'm entitled.

ONE: Because of the method.

TWO: Because of the method. AND because of the lack of method.

ONE: But it's fairly straight forward. I don't see the problem with it at all. If it were any more complicated I'd be in a panic.

TWO: Which is exactly why I must be in a panic. If you aren't, I must be.

ONE: Of course.

TWO: Oh, don't patronize me!

ONE: (standing) I wasn't.

(long silence)

TWO: Oh.

ONE: It's almost time.

TWO: But I'm not ready. I'm not. Do we have everything? Did we forget anything?

ONE: You have the box. I have the plant. That's all we needed.

(long silence)

TWO: Of course.

ONE: Please stop being so anxious. We'll be there in no time.

TWO: I know we'll be there in no time. (pause) But...you know... I guess I'd like to be there in some time instead of no time. Like how it used to be.

ONE: Those did seem like more amusing times.

TWO: Yes. Yes! Amusing! See! This is what I'm saying! This is what I've been saying all along! If only things took some time instead of no time. Things would be more amusing.

ONE: Here. We don't know how things would be there if they took some time.

(silence)

TWO: True. (pause) But we'll know once we get there. And if it turns out to be the same as here, I'll be saying the same thing.

ONE: And I'll be listening.

TWO: Exactly.

ONE: (slowly crossing to one side of the stage) Exactly.

(TWO follows ONE, as ONE crosses offstage. A flash of multicolored lights comes from that side of the stage. Silence. Blackout.)

This part of my life is over.

So it goes.

The precipice of departure is now well within sight.

For some time now, I have anticipated the necessary fear that would eventually creep into my excitement. However, anticipation of an emotion does little to prepare you for when the emotion sets in. As one who has never ventured outside of the United States (save Canada, which is basically a prettier and cleaner version of the U.S.), I can now feel the fear at times. It comes and goes in waves - as do the irregular levels of excitement and the, also anticipated, melancholy.

My reality is becoming more and more surreal, and I cannot begin to imagine what the flight to Romania will feel like. I only know that, despite these things seeping into my world, I cannot wait for the adventure to begin.

I want to go. I am ready to go. I cannot wait for alternative modes of thinking, acting, talking, listening, etc. I look forward to broadening some of my perspectives and having to completely change others. Because of these things, because I have soaked up nearly all I can from my current location and circumstances, I feel as if though I need to go, and I am positive part of me does. And what excites me more than growing as an individual and affecting those around me through this growth is to see how Marisa and I will grow together, through and because of this journey.

Yet...fear. I am leaving the comfort of what I know. I am leaving my rituals. And this brings with it both thrill and fear. But, I say resolutely, bring it on (but not with Kirsten Dunst)!

Yet...melancholy. I am leaving my family and my friends and Gatsby (will he even remember us? :( ). And it is this...this more than the fear that is affecting me at the moment. Probably because I've had a few of the key goodbyes take place these last few days. People who have affected and changed me. People who I have affected and changed. The goodbyes will continue throughout the next eleven days, and thus, no matter how ready I am to go, melancholy is making its own waves.

So...as logical as I am and have been, as "prepared" as I have been for this time, I am sullen, but that is what happens when you leave those who mean enough to make you sullen, which in turn makes me all the more grateful for these people and this sullenness (I edited someone's similar words here... you know who you are).

And there is one other thing causing me, and Marisa, to lament: no more Ruggles' ice cream... Hey! It's good!

Gatsby is currently lying in the misleading patch of sunlight (misleading because it is a mere 3 degrees (Celsius) outside) in my room as I am typing. He's looking at me lazily with, what seems like, mild curiosity as to what I am doing. He often does this when Marisa and I are on our laptops; it's cute.  

This is my day thus far. Slow. Relaxing. Uneventful. The first of my 10 days off of school. The children were quite squirrelly at school yesterday (not surprising) in anticipation of their 10 day break.

Marisa and I shall be visiting the Cheese State this week. She is obsessed with Taco John's, so we will be finding one while there. I'm looking forward to both the visit and having a churro. It's sort of our goodbye visit, so I anticipate a genial-with-a-touch-of-subtextual-melancholy atmosphere. 

Marisa is in the other room, again adjusting random items for our coming adventure. She's quite adorable with her OCD tendencies.

Today is Jocelyn's Birthday. Happy Birthday, Jocelyn!

I added a required disclaimer statement above. Required by the Peace Corps. Somewhat silly in my eyes, but entirely harmless. I say silly, and yet, I suppose, if you consider what some people may put in blogs (or online in general), it isn't to a certain extent. 

Also, I figured out how to allow anyone to post to the blog - even without a Gmail, Yahoo or AOL email account. My apologies for not locating this option sooner to anyone who went out and created a new mail account on my account. Then again, you can never have too many email addresses, right?

I have little else to update with (not that this has been all that update-worthy to begin with). Marisa and I saw Adventureland last night. It was quite enjoyable, though I feel the trailers were misleading in promoting it as a full-out comedy. It was more of a coming-of-age dramedy. If you're in that mode, we recommend it to you. 

54 days left in the U.S. ......... weird.

Gatsby says - in an unanticipated, high-pitched tone, "Eow." (I never really hear the "m" sound in his meows.)

Hello (or Salut).

This is a blog. Its purpose is to keep people up-to-date on my and Marisa's (Marisa is the beautiful woman to whom I am married) status/state-of-being/situation/etc. while we are in Romania. If you are reading this and: 1. Don't know who Marisa or I are. 2. Didn't know we were going to Romania. OR 3. Are generally befuddled. My response(s): 1. Should you be here? 2. SURPRISE!!! 3. I'm sorry and recommend you turn your television back on and return to mindless pandering. 

In 59 days (a mere 59 days!), we shall be in the country of Romania. This is: frightening/exhilarating/soon/not-soon-enough/fantastic/wonderful/all-of-the-above.

We shall miss our families, our friends, Gatsby, chocolate chip cookies (Marisa), coffee (me), The Secret Life of the American Teenager (Marisa's guilty pleasure), Up (by ONE DAY! UGH!), Thai food, pizza at least every other day (Marisa), turnips (not really, and they may have them there?), Ruggles, incessant amounts of toilet paper, sheep, ablism, graduate students with death wishes, dryers, marriage proposals? (hint, hint... you know who you are), confused graphic design majors, almost 50-year-olds, unnecessarily concerned voicemails regarding the whereabouts of short weekend trips, "non-blood relatives," formerly heavy wine drinkers on weight-loss plans, Thanksgiving-Christmases with young turkey-stuffers and gravy-makers, Mark, loud workout music emanating from basements and white laundry (mostly me).

What spawned this heroic adventure? I give you the somewhat fictionalized (based purely on faulty memories) initiating scene:

A Conversation about Joining the Peace Corps

(Marisa, a cute 22-year-old with long brunette hair and a killer smile, lays on the bed perusing the latest Valley Vanguard and comes upon an advertisement for an informational meeting about the Peace Corps. Mat, an aged (yet debonaire) 25-year-old with pretty blue eyes, sits at a desk doing something unimportant)

MARISA: They're having an informational meeting about the Peace Corps in March.MAT: Hmmmm.MARISA: (with a false air of frivolity in her voice) You know... I've always thought I'd join the Peace Corps someday.MAT: (emulating her frivolity - with less falseness) You know... I often thought about joining when I was younger.MARISA: Really?MAT: Huh?MARISA: Really? Or are you joking?MAT: Well... I was sort of joking.MARISA: Sort of or completely.MAT: Sort of. Because I thought you were joking.MARISA: I only sort of was.MAT: Really?MARISA: Really.MAT: So you want to join the Peace Corps?MARISA: Someday.MAT: Hmmmm.MARISA: Would you ever want to?MAT: I don't know. I haven't thought about it in a long time really.MARISA: But you were serious about it before?MAT: Well... Yes. In, like, high school and at the beginning of college.MARISA: So, we can join then?MAT: Are you serious?MARISA: Yes.MAT: Okay.

(They kiss)

SOOOO... This may not be EXACTLY how it occurred. OR that accurate at all really. BUT... It's close. It did revolve around the informational meeting and us mutually joking about it initially (out of a curiosity as to each others reactions) and realizing that we both did or had wanted to do this in our lives. It also revolved around lengthy discussions regarding the fact that we would want to go together and that meant we had to be married (gasp!). In the end, I don't think either of us can picture doing anything else right now, which is how thrilled we are about it.

Thus. Here we are. 59 days away...and counting.