Decisions

I have been thinking this entire time that I would be coming home for a visit around Easter to see friends and family and just take a break from this life. And stock up on Mini Eggs. I thought that way up until a few weeks ago, when the hour came to plan it and set the dates and buy the tickets. I realized that I felt no pressing need to go home and, actually, did not really want to. And when I say I did not want to, I mean that I did not want to say goodbye all over again. Once was tough enough. I'm doing ok here, I miss people but it's manageable and I'm used to it now, especially with these modern day contraptions of skype and web cams and blogs. If I come home, it might mess up this pattern of ok and make me realize just how badly I miss everyone and everything Nevada. Plus, it's stinking expensive and I would like to do a little bit of traveling around this region while I'm here. So, instead of coming home for a visit, I'm going to Greece. Greece! Wow. I balance out not experiencing the joy of seeing all my lovely friends and family and familiarity with seeing the cradle of modern civilization. A reasonable trade? We shall see.

In other news, I have quarantined myself to my site, Sfantu Gheorghe, for the past month and I actually have no plans of staying a night anywhere else until our mid-service training, which goes from April 6th-9th. The next day (the 10th) I will leave with my pals Susie and Megan for Greece. Greece! Wow. We shall return on the 16th. I decided to stay an entire month at site for a few reasons:

1. I wasn't getting enough rest on the weekends by traveling to see friends and not sleeping in my own bed and was turning into a creepy zombie lady who couldn't think or speak clearly (not that things have improved that much...)

2. By working all week, being busy in the evenings and spending the weekends in other cities, I wasn't making any good friendships. I don't think I'll ever feel as close to the locals as I do to some of the volunteers, but I should certainly give it a try. During this month of self-quarantine, my landlord invited me to an opera in Brasov, I've quasi-hosted a baby shower, a friend invited me to Saturday tea at her house, another friend is teaching me how to paint eggs and I was invited to attend a couple of church services. These were all just one day events and don't really add up to a whole lot, but if I hadn't been here on the weekends, they wouldn't have happened. On the other hand, I know I'm missing out on happy fun times with my volunteer friends, but I already feel like I have a good bond with them. It's time to focus on the local side of things.

3. Traveling is expensive.

4. Stuff has picked up a bit and I could easily work all weekend long on projects now (not that I do (at all)) and I feel like I need a bit more down time on the weekends, while I used to have more down time during the week. I really am a lazy person at heart.

I am both sad and relieved that I won't be home next month. Sad to not see everyone again and relieved to not have to go through the farewell process once more. I said this a long time ago, but it's still true. I miss you. Come visit.

A quiet person's escape

I miss my car for three reasons.

1. Ease of travel
2. The ability to listen to loud music without headphones or pestering the neighbors
3. 80 miles an hour on the freeway, putting every ounce of extra energy into the loudest, widest scream possible and not a single person knows

relief.

The Driver and The Witness

I heard a man get run over by a van on Tuesday, after the drama club. I would have seen it if I hadn't been turned towards one of the drama kids, asking her some stupid question about the weekend, as she watched the old man in the cross walk fall beneath the tires. A dull thud-thud. Like speed bumps. As simple sounding as a car going over speed bumps. One thing I have not been able to get used to is the reckless way the majority here drives. I no longer mind if you don't smile at me on the street or make room for me to easily pass on the sidewalk. I don't care if you push in front of me in line or give me chewing gum instead of correct change. But, for the love of anything, slow down. After it happened, the man immediately started trying to get up, looking embarrassed and in the way. Like it was his fault. He rolled from left to right, trying to figure out which side he could easily get up on. A small crowd had formed, including the driver of the van, and within a few minutes the man was standing and, very very slowly, moving towards the sidewalk. His leg was obviously broken. One of the kids I was with had already dialed the police (112 here, not 911) and soon enough, sirens and swirling lights were flooding the area. Things were going to be ok. Now, a few days after it happened, I like to think of the old man sitting in a warm bed with a fresh cast around his shin and a relieved family doting over him. Vanilla ice cream speckling his smiling chin and his favorite movie playing in the background. At the same time, somewhere in the city, at least two people are hearing a thud-thud in their dreams, disturbing their sleep and disrupting their thoughts.

Searching...

Admittedly, being placed in a city where two languages are commonly spoken has had it's frustrating moments. I know I've talked about it before, but it's one of those things that comes up daily - the question of which language to address someone in, the panic of not understanding a word of what a stranger on the street is obviously addressing to me, the fear of disappointing colleagues for focusing on one language over another, and the sorrow of being surrounded by good friends who are deep in a conversation that I can not partake in nor remotely understand due to my Hungarian inadequacies. As time goes by, however, I'm discovering that the divide running through my city reaches much deeper than just language. It involves culture, history, religion, food, everything. Of course, growing up so close to each other, there are definite similarities between the ethnic Hungarians and the Romanians, but in so many ways the two groups lead separate lives filled with different truths and who is to know which truths are more accurate. While eating dinner with a Hungarian family, I am told stories about how this land was originally theirs, how Romanians were brought into the region during communism to dilute the Hungarian potency and their collective power. How the teachers they hired were forced to teach lies disguised as history, further decreasing the Hungarian legacy. The next day I have Romanian tutoring and am told about how the Hungarians who ended up here were merely passing through, hundreds of years ago, and a few groups decided to stay, claiming stake to a land they had no right to and no connection with, prying it from hardworking Romanian hands. I'm sure I could look up what is considered the real history in some book out there, but I've always been under the impression that the best way to learn history is to hear it from the people whose ancestors actually lived through it. Even if I read it in a book, it would be the author's version of history and no matter how unbiased a person tries to be when looking at a situation, there is no way to erase themselves completely from their research. Who knows how many different histories exist for this region, let alone Europe, let alone the world. When you really think about it, it's difficult to believe anything, and easier to believe everything. It all happened, according to someone, and when you're an outsider talking to that someone, just listen to them and agree. Take in all the different histories possible and maybe one day you'll be able to put some pieces together and make something of it.