Thursday seems to be the blog day as of late.
There's a wonderful craft shop here that I go to at least once a month to buy a little hand-made trinket or a gift to send home. There are three reasons why I love this craft shop dearly: 1) the stock is mostly made up of the works created by local artisans from the Sfantu Gheorghe region, 2) the shopkeeper is just about the nicest little old lady I've ever met, and 3) it's magical. Yes, magical. From the moment I open the door and walk inside, Romanian suddenly decides to make sense and for some mystical reason, I can actually understand about 75% of what the sweet little shopkeeper says. And if that's not enough, I am miraculously able to say things (very simple things) in Romanian that are comprehensible, at least to my little older lady friend, even if it does sometimes take a couple of tries. I don't even know her name, or the name of the store for that matter, but she is one of those ladies and it is one of those places that I know will tug on the heart strings five years from now, even if I were to leave tomorrow. I know this because thinking about it right now, thinking about not having the option to go buy a scarf that was knitted by a little local bunica, or not being able to go practice my lousy Romanian with someone whose personality makes me smile for the rest of the day, already does tug on the heart strings. There's something she always says to me as I'm leaving the shop, which I never really understood until today. It means something along the lines of "thank you for supporting our community". Well, that's why I'm here, but I think the shop and its keeper do far more to support me than I do to support them. Buying stuff is easy, even on a volunteer's budget, but making an outsider feel welcome and comfortable? That takes far more skill. Maybe it even takes a little magic.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
And all is good
I know my posts on here have been fairly down lately, and I apologize for that. I'm not providing a very accurate image of my life here right now because the majority of it is surprisingly nice, knock on wood. I think part of the sorrow that's been coming out is due to the fact that I only update at night, when I am feeling my lowest. During the day, I am as happy as a clam, but after about 8pm on evenings when not much is going on, I get down and all I want to do is type out my blues. I've actually been resisting the urge lately to jump on here every time I'm feeling down because I don't want to give everyone the impression that my life here is bleak and difficult, but I don't have many other means of relief. It's getting too cold to jog, I can't find a piano to play for the life of me, I'm tired of turning plastic bottles into flowers and spiders, I am unable for some reason to focus on any book, and I don't want to live a life of pestering people on gmail chat. So I type.
On Tuesday, I handed out the roles for the Christmas skit the drama club is going to put on. Last week I had only 11 people show up, this week I had 15...it's hard to prepare a play when the participants vary so much, but everyone who was there this Tuesday said they were dedicated, so we'll see. Actually, I need to write two more scenes so everyone will be able to have at least two parts. They're surprisingly, wonderfully into it and I bless the day that I mentioned my (minimal) drama experience to my tutor. This week was particularly fun when I put them into groups of 4, gave them each a line (four lines for the whole scene) and then asked them to perform the scene without actually saying the words, so they had to pantomime. It was great to see what they came up with, clever kids that they are.
Another fun moment happened when Dan, a very kind man at my agency who has been coming to the English hour, proudly held up his pencil and said "This is my chair!" after the this/that these/those lesson. He's never had English classes before, while most of the others have, and he's generally pretty quiet in class, but he tries. He was so proud and sure of himself, it broke my heart to tell him the truth. "Sorry, Dan. That is a pencil, not a chair. But it is yours." "Oh...this is my PENCIL!" he then points at his chair "this is my CHAIR!" he says with a smile as he lightly punches the air in victory. I love people.
On Tuesday, I handed out the roles for the Christmas skit the drama club is going to put on. Last week I had only 11 people show up, this week I had 15...it's hard to prepare a play when the participants vary so much, but everyone who was there this Tuesday said they were dedicated, so we'll see. Actually, I need to write two more scenes so everyone will be able to have at least two parts. They're surprisingly, wonderfully into it and I bless the day that I mentioned my (minimal) drama experience to my tutor. This week was particularly fun when I put them into groups of 4, gave them each a line (four lines for the whole scene) and then asked them to perform the scene without actually saying the words, so they had to pantomime. It was great to see what they came up with, clever kids that they are.
Another fun moment happened when Dan, a very kind man at my agency who has been coming to the English hour, proudly held up his pencil and said "This is my chair!" after the this/that these/those lesson. He's never had English classes before, while most of the others have, and he's generally pretty quiet in class, but he tries. He was so proud and sure of himself, it broke my heart to tell him the truth. "Sorry, Dan. That is a pencil, not a chair. But it is yours." "Oh...this is my PENCIL!" he then points at his chair "this is my CHAIR!" he says with a smile as he lightly punches the air in victory. I love people.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
just out of reach
I don't like my last post. It's a Debby of a downer, but that happens once in a while.
My tea arrives. Finally. Something to focus on. I pull it in towards me, scoop up some honey from the little pot, then watch it slowly swirl down into my drink, forming a little layer on the bottom of the mug. A treat for later. There are three other people at the table with me and they are deep in conversation. Their faces light up with humor at something said, they lean forward, backs stretching in towards the speaker as a confidential detail is quietly described. Hands fly through the air to provide additional explanation, air is sharply inhaled as they gasp at something too bizarre to believe. Laughter erupts and faces turn red as they try not to laugh too loud, suddenly embarrassed. A happy silence follows, with little sighs of comfort and memory. Everyone is reflecting on something, it seems. Something funny from the past, a funny person they once knew, an embarrassing night out on the town, perhaps, when a few too many tsuicas were consumed. I can only imagine. One of them glances at me and hesitates; I know what's coming. "Uh, it was a joke", he says in English and then proceeds to explain the joke to me, in English. It takes about twenty seconds to tell me the five minute ordeal I had just witnessed. The joke ends abruptly and the speaker looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get it. It's not funny. To me, it's not funny, but I proceed to make the sounds and gestures that resemble laughter and everyone politely joins in. It goes on far too long, I think, this fake laughter, but we all fear what we know will follow. Slowly, silence ensues. It's not the satisfied silence from before, instead it's a silence endured with sideways glances, oddly stretched smiles, and tangible attempts at resuming some sort of conversation. I take a sip of tea, trying to maintain a smile. My hand shakes slightly, tea drips on my shirt, it’s not sweet enough. I take a napkin from the table and busily dab at the spot on my shirt and as I dab away for what feels like decades, someone discovers a suitable topic and gratefully breaks the tension. I resume my role of the clueless observer, wishing deeply that I could understand, and wishing that the honey was not now on the other end of the table, just out of reach.
My tea arrives. Finally. Something to focus on. I pull it in towards me, scoop up some honey from the little pot, then watch it slowly swirl down into my drink, forming a little layer on the bottom of the mug. A treat for later. There are three other people at the table with me and they are deep in conversation. Their faces light up with humor at something said, they lean forward, backs stretching in towards the speaker as a confidential detail is quietly described. Hands fly through the air to provide additional explanation, air is sharply inhaled as they gasp at something too bizarre to believe. Laughter erupts and faces turn red as they try not to laugh too loud, suddenly embarrassed. A happy silence follows, with little sighs of comfort and memory. Everyone is reflecting on something, it seems. Something funny from the past, a funny person they once knew, an embarrassing night out on the town, perhaps, when a few too many tsuicas were consumed. I can only imagine. One of them glances at me and hesitates; I know what's coming. "Uh, it was a joke", he says in English and then proceeds to explain the joke to me, in English. It takes about twenty seconds to tell me the five minute ordeal I had just witnessed. The joke ends abruptly and the speaker looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get it. It's not funny. To me, it's not funny, but I proceed to make the sounds and gestures that resemble laughter and everyone politely joins in. It goes on far too long, I think, this fake laughter, but we all fear what we know will follow. Slowly, silence ensues. It's not the satisfied silence from before, instead it's a silence endured with sideways glances, oddly stretched smiles, and tangible attempts at resuming some sort of conversation. I take a sip of tea, trying to maintain a smile. My hand shakes slightly, tea drips on my shirt, it’s not sweet enough. I take a napkin from the table and busily dab at the spot on my shirt and as I dab away for what feels like decades, someone discovers a suitable topic and gratefully breaks the tension. I resume my role of the clueless observer, wishing deeply that I could understand, and wishing that the honey was not now on the other end of the table, just out of reach.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Tomorrow
The future always appears brighter than the present (I seem to be stuck in the tenses lately, my apologies). It's a curse of optimism and an inability to accept the possibility that things could get worse. When looking at the future, you often assume that it will be better than today and you've been taught to think like this since elementary school. Teachers pep you up with phrases like "when you go to college", "when you get married", "when you have your own house", not with phrases like "when you're smoking a pack a day", "when you get divorced", "when you're staring at your reflection in disgust", giving you a false sense of future brightness and refusing to admit that parts of your life could potentially suck. You grow up envisioning your adult self as being shrouded in happiness, surrounded by opportunities, thinking things are going to be great. And then you get there and you realize, though it's not awful, life just isn't the shiny little nugget of wonderment they had made it out to be. It's disappointing. Life is disappointing.
Or is it me? Am I doing this right or am I failing at making this little nugget shine?
Tomorrow I'm going to wake up, turn on the computer, and check the results. But no matter how great either candidate may seem, I'm not going to expect much. I'm learning.
Or is it me? Am I doing this right or am I failing at making this little nugget shine?
Tomorrow I'm going to wake up, turn on the computer, and check the results. But no matter how great either candidate may seem, I'm not going to expect much. I'm learning.
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