A while ago, before I left for Romania, I wrote something relatively cheesy about how much I liked my group (24!) without having met them and how just knowing they were out there, preparing for this big adventure we were going to undertake together, helped me get through packing and saying goodbye. I used the word assiduously in the entry and it sticks out like a sore thumb to me now. I don't even know what assiduously means out of context...musta been the word of the day on my mom's calendar or something. Anyways, now, of course, my ideas about 24! have changed a bit. There are people I enjoy spending time with, people I tend to avoid, and people I don't really know, but after enduring so many afternoon hours in the same little classroom with the same group of people every day for nearly 3 months, you become accustomed to the group's synergy (as much as that word annoys me) and even start to crave it. Even now, while at site and disconnected from those that I'm closest to, every member of the group is on my mind. I keep this map of Romania on my wall and it has a little piece of a post-it note on it where every 24! volunteer is placed and sometimes, when there's not much going on, I'll just stare at it for a while, my eyes shifting from site to site, wondering what each volunteer is up to and how they are doing and what their little corner of Romania is like. I'm sad, though, because I should technically take one of the little post-it notes down, but I can't bring myself to do it. A 24! volunteer has unexpectedly decided to go home and end his service early and it's especially tough because our group was one of the very few who made it through pre-service training and all the way through 3 months of service without losing a single person, strengthening our cohesion. I fully understand his decision to go home, though. I feel more sad over him going through such a hard time than over our group no longer being complete. Thursday was probably one of the worst days I've had so far, just knowing that members of our little 24! group are having a hard time and that the solidity I felt when looking at my post-it note map really wasn't all that solid.
But, I have running water and 35 other 24! members to harass, so I think I'm doing okay.
How are you doing?
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
oh, the irony
It's pouring outside...pouring. The abundance of water falling from the sky is keeping me from setting foot out there, while the lack of water in here is making me compulsively test the taps every 30 minutes. To no avail. It's a cruel, cruel world. I want water where there isn't and where there is only makes me grumble.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Water......water
I really want to wash my hands right now, but I can't. I'd also like to take care of the pile of dirty dishes in my sink and brush my teeth, wash my face and maybe flush the toilet. But I can't. I can't because my water is not working, which I discovered at 9:30pm and I only have half a bottle of water to get me through the night and no stores are open past 9. Something that continues to keep me on my toes here is the question of which utility will not be working next, for no obvious reason and with no explanation. My hot water didn't work for a week, the internet was out for 2, last month the electricity went out for a couple of days, now neither the hot nor cold water works. If I could have any utility over the others, it's running water of any temperature, and I didn't realize that until tonight, at 9:30pm. I really really want to wash my hands. All you have to do is take away half of what a semi-compulsive hand-washer needs to feel happy and you've ruined their night. It'll be ok, though. Live Tom Waits, Sleater Kinney, and Fleet Foxes concerts are helping me to forget about the communities of germs that are staking their claims and taking up residence on my palms right now.
ps - happy birthday to my sis (yesterday)!
And here's to being in a different country for over six months. Weird.
ps - happy birthday to my sis (yesterday)!
And here's to being in a different country for over six months. Weird.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
an outsider's view
I've never been much of a religious person, calling myself agnostic and feeling anxious when people start talking about any one of the many faiths out there, but something more than beauty exists within the churches here. I think it's the sheer age of them, the musty scent of ancient stone and decaying wood mixing in with the holy incense, the aged and barely visible life-size paintings of forlorn women holding sleeping babies in their faded and tattered frocks, the bowed benches that have supported generation upon generation of worshipers, and the stillness of it all combined. The silence that emanates from the stones, the paintings, the benches - all older than any living thing - is captivating. It's overpowering. I was walking through the city on a particularly hot day and was getting tired of the sun beating on my shoulders and the wind pressing grit into my sweat, so as I approached one of the Orthodox churches, I decided to go in. Churches have always had a cooling affect on me. I climbed the steps and walked through the doorway, a gust of old but pleasant smelling air brushed away the grit and calmed my shoulders down. A woman sat at a kiosk in the front room, selling various religious items, but was too busy reading a book to notice my entrance. I slipped through another doorway and into the main part of the church and walked straight out into the middle, relishing the fact that I had an arena of faith all to myself and breathing in the centuries of lives that had passed through the very same sliver of space. I turned around in a circle, taking in all those faded ladies carrying all those tired babies and, instead of wondering who they were, I pictured their creation, hundreds of years ago, on the walls before me. The silent space comes to life as people on precariously placed ladders carefully take trays of paint from a helper down below, gently dip their brushes in and let them soak up the proper amount of color, and then, as they bite their lower lips in concentration, they give their Saints the gift of sight. As the ladders and their occupants fade and the vividness of their paint disintegrates, I look up. He's there, staring down at me, much larger than life. I hadn't noticed him when I walked in, but I should have known he'd be there. He's always there. High up in the top of the tallest dome, bathed in golden sunlight and untouchable by anything. I nod at him slightly, as if to say "well, of course it's you". If he's as wonderful as they all say, he'll forgive me and my decision to disagree. A ray of light is illuminating bits of dust floating in the air just below his gaze, giving him a holographic and even more distant appearance. I can't picture the person who made this painting. It's too high up and too old to fathom its creation. I stare. He stares back. It could go on forever like this and at that moment, it was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The two of us just staring at eachother, observing, questioning, the church silently aging around us, the stones eventually crumble, the paintings dissolve, the benches deteriorate until nothing is left but a silent, inquisitive stare. Forever. After an unknown amount of time, a cough and some movement comes from the doorway and my head automatically snaps towards it, breaking what I thought was permanent. The lady who had been reading when I entered was shuffling and sniffing through my arena, flipping through some papers in her hand and taking no notice of me, still posed beneath the highest dome. It's work to her, it's her life. By the time she reaches the back of the church, I am shading my eyes from the sun and thinking about ice cream.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
the good, the bad, and the dirty
While I was working at the G-Lab, I had a colleague from India and occasionally I'd hear Indian coming from his office as he spoke with his wife or family on the phone, but I never really thought too much about how he could also speak English. I never really thought about how cool it was that a person from a foreign country could speak my language and how much work must have gone into learning it and how difficult it is, even when you've got the basics down, to really understand a language that is not your original. Nearly nobody in America gets excited when a foreigner can speak English. It's almost expected of them and, if anything, they're looked down upon if they can't communicate well.
Now I work in a biodiversity department with people who communicate with me in English, but when I do try to speak in Romanian (or Hungarian), they are overjoyed. They find it simply amazing that I'm trying to learn Romanian and it makes me sad that if they were to visit America, rarely a second thought would go towards the fact that they can speak English fluently, and yet they discuss and congratulate me on my vocabulary that any 2 year old could beat.
About a month before I moved out of my apartment in Reno, my kitchen sink would backup and overflow every time the upstairs neighbors ran their dishwasher. After this happened 10 or so times (I'm always hopeful that plumbing problems will just magically dissolve), I called my landlord and the next day a plumber showed up. He spent about two hours there setting up his equipment, tinkering with the sink, running up and down the stairs because it involved both my apartment and the apartment above, and cleaning up after his work. When he left, not only did the sink drain properly, but it had been cleaned of all the gunk that had accumulated from the neighbors' previous dishwashing session. Plus, he smiled, shook my hand and said thank you when he left.
Two days ago, as I was getting ready to leave my apartment for an English club meeting, a man knocked on my door and, from what I understood (I understand so little), told me that he was going to cover my door so he could paint around it. That's fine, I said, I'm leaving in five minutes. Two minutes later there was another knock on the door and a different man told me, in English, that I needed to cover my door so they could paint around it. I need to cover it? I said. But I don't have anything to cover it with. Well, he said, neither do we. And that was that. They both went back to painting around the already covered doors upstairs and I left for the English club feeling surprisingly frustrated. I need to cover it? I don't even want them to paint it and I need to cover it and I have nothing, no plastic sheeting, no old sheets, nothing to cover it with. I asked the people at the club where I could buy something that would do the trick and one of them suggested newspaper. That's a great idea, I said, remembering the stack of 5 or so newspapers my tutor gave me sitting under the sink. After returning home at 10pm, I spent the next hour covering my door with Romanian newspapers and I haven't seen the painters or a drop of paint since.
Now that I think about it, when the first man was telling me, in Romanian, that I needed to cover the door, I didn't really listen to what he was saying, I just assumed that he would cover it. Growing up in the birthplace of friendly and thorough customer service has not helped me much here and I still find it disconcerting to walk into an adorable touristy boutique, of the likes you'd find in San Francisco, and be greeted by an annoyed "Spuneti" or "Tesik", which basically means "What do you want?", followed by a never ending stare of impatience as you wander around the store, feeling more and more nervous and finding the store less and less appealing. Oddly enough, I've found that the crummiest looking places generally house the most pleasant clerks, and the more chic and fashionable shops have the rudest. Maybe it's hip to be unpleasant. I guess that could be said about many stores in the US, too. Remember my "SEVEN bags" incident a while back? No? I sure do.
Speaking of bags, in the fall of last year, I participated in a Truckee River clean-up event where we walked along 4 kilometers of the Truckee and picked up every little bit of trash that we could find. There were about 7 of us and we collected 11 bags of trash. As we searched, the main items retrieved were little gum wrappers, cigarette butts, an occasional beer can, and a very rare glass or plastic bottle. The bottles almost felt like a lucky find, like something to be proud of. There were maybe 9 or 10 of those.
I spent the first part of today participating in an Olt river clean up event that was hosted by a couple of environmental NGOs from Bucharest. They arranged the supplies, the logistics, the 20 students who helped out, and the food that was donated. They even gave us free t-shirts and hats. We walked about 5 kilometers of the river and collected close to 50 bags, which were filled mainly with glass and plastic bottles. And dirty diapers. The gum wrappers and cigarette butts were overlooked. Actually, I picked up a few still burning butts that a couple of volunteers threw on the ground. With time. It'll change with time and the cigarette butts will become the hunted while the bottles become the lucky finds, the rare little trophies of a job well done.
The efficiency and effectiveness of today's clean up was quite impressive and it's great that Romania is able to clean itself up. Again, why am I here?
ps - The backpacking/eco-center rebuild trip has been just about my favorite event of the summer so far. We spent three days hiking and relaxing and three days working hard and building. And by building, I mean moving very large and very heavy lincoln logs from one side of the river and up the hill to the other side of the river and down the hill. The logs magically fit together to make a house, but we didn't get to see the finished product because we had to leave before the roof or floor were completed. Oh well, maybe next time. Pictures from the week will probably be posted some time in the next two weeks, if I post at my current picture posting pace. There are new ones up, by the way. From a coupla months ago. Tomorrow morning I am meeting with someone who runs a local craft work shop. I might get to take some classes and learn something traditional, which'd be cool. Maybe that's why I'm here.
Now I work in a biodiversity department with people who communicate with me in English, but when I do try to speak in Romanian (or Hungarian), they are overjoyed. They find it simply amazing that I'm trying to learn Romanian and it makes me sad that if they were to visit America, rarely a second thought would go towards the fact that they can speak English fluently, and yet they discuss and congratulate me on my vocabulary that any 2 year old could beat.
About a month before I moved out of my apartment in Reno, my kitchen sink would backup and overflow every time the upstairs neighbors ran their dishwasher. After this happened 10 or so times (I'm always hopeful that plumbing problems will just magically dissolve), I called my landlord and the next day a plumber showed up. He spent about two hours there setting up his equipment, tinkering with the sink, running up and down the stairs because it involved both my apartment and the apartment above, and cleaning up after his work. When he left, not only did the sink drain properly, but it had been cleaned of all the gunk that had accumulated from the neighbors' previous dishwashing session. Plus, he smiled, shook my hand and said thank you when he left.
Two days ago, as I was getting ready to leave my apartment for an English club meeting, a man knocked on my door and, from what I understood (I understand so little), told me that he was going to cover my door so he could paint around it. That's fine, I said, I'm leaving in five minutes. Two minutes later there was another knock on the door and a different man told me, in English, that I needed to cover my door so they could paint around it. I need to cover it? I said. But I don't have anything to cover it with. Well, he said, neither do we. And that was that. They both went back to painting around the already covered doors upstairs and I left for the English club feeling surprisingly frustrated. I need to cover it? I don't even want them to paint it and I need to cover it and I have nothing, no plastic sheeting, no old sheets, nothing to cover it with. I asked the people at the club where I could buy something that would do the trick and one of them suggested newspaper. That's a great idea, I said, remembering the stack of 5 or so newspapers my tutor gave me sitting under the sink. After returning home at 10pm, I spent the next hour covering my door with Romanian newspapers and I haven't seen the painters or a drop of paint since.
Now that I think about it, when the first man was telling me, in Romanian, that I needed to cover the door, I didn't really listen to what he was saying, I just assumed that he would cover it. Growing up in the birthplace of friendly and thorough customer service has not helped me much here and I still find it disconcerting to walk into an adorable touristy boutique, of the likes you'd find in San Francisco, and be greeted by an annoyed "Spuneti" or "Tesik", which basically means "What do you want?", followed by a never ending stare of impatience as you wander around the store, feeling more and more nervous and finding the store less and less appealing. Oddly enough, I've found that the crummiest looking places generally house the most pleasant clerks, and the more chic and fashionable shops have the rudest. Maybe it's hip to be unpleasant. I guess that could be said about many stores in the US, too. Remember my "SEVEN bags" incident a while back? No? I sure do.
Speaking of bags, in the fall of last year, I participated in a Truckee River clean-up event where we walked along 4 kilometers of the Truckee and picked up every little bit of trash that we could find. There were about 7 of us and we collected 11 bags of trash. As we searched, the main items retrieved were little gum wrappers, cigarette butts, an occasional beer can, and a very rare glass or plastic bottle. The bottles almost felt like a lucky find, like something to be proud of. There were maybe 9 or 10 of those.
I spent the first part of today participating in an Olt river clean up event that was hosted by a couple of environmental NGOs from Bucharest. They arranged the supplies, the logistics, the 20 students who helped out, and the food that was donated. They even gave us free t-shirts and hats. We walked about 5 kilometers of the river and collected close to 50 bags, which were filled mainly with glass and plastic bottles. And dirty diapers. The gum wrappers and cigarette butts were overlooked. Actually, I picked up a few still burning butts that a couple of volunteers threw on the ground. With time. It'll change with time and the cigarette butts will become the hunted while the bottles become the lucky finds, the rare little trophies of a job well done.
The efficiency and effectiveness of today's clean up was quite impressive and it's great that Romania is able to clean itself up. Again, why am I here?
ps - The backpacking/eco-center rebuild trip has been just about my favorite event of the summer so far. We spent three days hiking and relaxing and three days working hard and building. And by building, I mean moving very large and very heavy lincoln logs from one side of the river and up the hill to the other side of the river and down the hill. The logs magically fit together to make a house, but we didn't get to see the finished product because we had to leave before the roof or floor were completed. Oh well, maybe next time. Pictures from the week will probably be posted some time in the next two weeks, if I post at my current picture posting pace. There are new ones up, by the way. From a coupla months ago. Tomorrow morning I am meeting with someone who runs a local craft work shop. I might get to take some classes and learn something traditional, which'd be cool. Maybe that's why I'm here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)