Behind Door Number 1

I spent last week sleeping in a tent, barely showering in a wooden box with unheated water and contorting my body to find an un-lumpy patch of earth to curl up on. Despite the discomforts, I've never felt so ok with camping. As mentioned in previous posts, I often count down the days until such events are over, but this time around, I somehow managed to simply enjoy the newness and slight adventure of it. Maybe some things do change.

One of last week's tasks included making a map of all the traditional homes in the village Grosii Tiblesului (don't ask me how to pronounce it) and I, being of the map-making type and feeling a bit unenthusiastic about the remaining scrub-the-dust-off-the-house task, jumped at the opportunity. It took me and my two friends two days to walk down every street, determine the traditional-ness of every single house, take a picture of those deemed most traditional and briefly chat with whomever happened by. In all, we recorded 296 houses. Just as we finished up our final street and started heading back to the museum, a man approached and asked us to come with him to his house. There had been a tv newscast the night before about what our group was doing and he had heard about the project and wanted us to see something, but I couldn't understand what. Now, I try not to be a judgmental person, but when a man with red eyes, sour looking clothes and alcohol on his breath starts pulling on my arm rather forcefully and telling me that I have to go with him, I get unhappy. We all said that we were tired and we needed to get back to the museum because our friends were waiting for us and we couldn't go with him, but he wouldn't have it and his grip on my arm tightened as his persistence increased. Reluctantly, we let ourselves be led away from the trail towards home and into a strange man's yard. He led us past the house and to a small, padlocked shed in the back. With slightly shaky hands, he undid the lock and opened the door and, as he fumbled for the light switch, gestured for us to step inside. Still feeling uneasy, but knowing that, with the help of my two companions, I could easily kick this guys butt, we stepped inside the little, plain shed. If you have read the Harry Potter series, you are familiar with the magical tents they use for camping, the ones that look simple and small on the outside, but are vastly ornate mansions on the inside. This felt a little reminiscent of those. Though the shed did not increase in size once inside, its beauty was the utter opposite of the plain, white outside walls. The man is a wood carver and stores his crafts in this shed. Intricately carved wooden chairs, tables, cabinets, frames, spoons, plates, coat racks, toys, etc covered every square inch of wall space and as much floor space as possible. In an instance, my unease sheepishly fizzled away and was replaced with awe. He's hoping to turn his little shed into a museum and bring tourists in to see his work, which I think is a great idea. He'll just have to work on his greeting and tourist hook a little. No arm-pulling allowed.