the proudest moment

The theme for this week’s lessons was, fittingly, New Years. In one of the classes, we did a little mini summary of the highlights from 2010, like what is your best memory of 2010, what was the most difficult thing you did, what was your proudest moment, etc. All of the answers involved going to college, studying for the exams and taking the tests to get here. There’s only one girl in my mechanics class of 23. She rarely speaks, but her English is surprisingly good. I asked her what her proudest moment of 2010 was and she replied, in perfect English, “My proudest moment was leaving the countryside and coming here to study.”
I have to remind myself of that sometimes. There are three tiers of universities here. The first is the top, where the students with the highest test scores coming out of high school go, then there’s the middle tier where students with average test scores go, then there’s the third tier, where students who did not do so well on their exams go. My school is a third tier school, more like a vocational school than a university. My students are studying automobile design, mechanics, hotel management and logistics. They tell me readily every day that their English is very poor. And, for the most part, it is.
It’s a challenge every class to be understood. It’s a game of figuring out how many different ways I can say “describe a trip you would like to take” and knowing whether they really understand what to do or if they’re just saying ok to get me off their backs. It’s a puzzle of deciphering what English words they could possibly be struggling so intently to say. It’s a miniature show of gesticulations and crude drawings as I try to describe Santa and his eight tiny reindeer. Every class takes all of my effort to understand and to be understood. Every class comes with many silences of 30 or more seconds while Nick or Nancy or Bruce or Jim wrench the sentence “I want to travel to Beijing by plane first, then to Sydney by boat” from the recesses of their brain. And many of them have been studying English for 6 years.
At first I wondered why a school like this needed native English speakers to teach, especially because most of the students are going into professions that don’t need English to get by. Most volunteers are working with students who are majoring in English and who will one day be English teachers and who really really want to practice their English. That makes sense to me - giving future English teachers new teaching methods and improving their English skills at the same time. Benefits all around.
But here? Where the students often consider English a thorn in their side, where the students would rather hear me speak Chinese than practice their English, where even the English teachers seem uninterested in the language. Why here? In one short, sweet answer – Because the government says so. My school is directly tied to the government and because they want Peace Corps volunteers here and it’s a delicate relationship that needs to be maintained, they get them. That’s in a nutshell formed from my shoddy understanding of things.
This became a grudge in my mind and for a while it was difficult to not feel angry about being placed here, and slightly shafted. I hear about other volunteers holding debates with their students and teaching them about art and discussing politics (delicately) with them, getting invited to lunch every day by different students, not getting to practice Chinese because everyone wants to speak English, and I question what good I’m doing way out here, on the edge of town, with my hundred or so students who tell me every day that their English is very poor. And, for the most part, it is.
Then I find out that some of my students are coming from the country side, where education might not be top priority. Where a student feels proud to leave. A place that produces students with lower test scores, but students who are nonetheless intelligent. Students who can write sweet notes on Christmas. Take, for example, the following, which accompanied an apple:
“Dear Arien, Apple stands for peace, safe and well in China. Though you can’t celebrate with your family, you can celebrate this holiday with us. May your holidays be bright. Happy New Year, Merry Christmas  Yours, A.”
It’s not much, but I’ll take it. And I’ll take the 40 or so other equally kind-hearted notes I got, and the endless badminton matches and the numerous performances that are suddenly popping up and the little band of student friends I’ve acquired over the past month. We might not be able to say a whole lot to each other yet, but we can definitely play a mean round of badminton.
As 2010 ends and 2011 begins, I will keep it in mind every time I want to question why I’m at this school that coming here was, for some of my students, their proudest moment. And I think the best way to look at it is to be proud of being a part of somebody else’s proudest moment.

Happy New Year.

A Little Dash of Pride

It’s official. My students have won me over. At least one class of them. A couple of students approached me last week about attending a show they were putting on and I, possibly a bit too enthusiastically, said I would be there in a heart beat. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been dying to be invited to something, and here you are finally inviting me! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!
So the event happened tonight, but I got a sneak peak yesterday, when, before class, I asked them what they were going to do during the show. Before I knew it, the entire class was singing a Chinese song. They got really into it…clapping the beat and swaying and all. A couple even stood up. And they’re all men, except for one. I have a tough time imagining a whole class of American eighteen and nineteen year old mechanic students serenading their teacher before class, so I’ll count myself fortunate.
They were the last group to perform tonight, of about 10 other freshmen performances. I must say, though all the acts were interesting and funny (as little as I could understand), the best was certainly saved for last. Who knew that my little class of mechanics is filled with natural talent? I’m all jazzed up now to start a drama club again and work with the students on more creative stuff. After the show they all clamored around my sitemate and I to get our feedback and all I could do was beam.

On a side note, after the show, we went to the little supermarket here on campus. I saw one of my best students, and being all jazzed up as I was, I went over and lightly punched him on the shoulder and said hi. Of course, when he turned around, I realized it wasn’t my student at all. It was someone I had never seen before. He just stared, wide-eyed. That’s what we giant, pale Americans do. Go around punching random people on the shoulder. Yup.

An Ode to Luggage

In every volunteer’s home, there is a constant reminder of the day that will eventually arrive. Sometimes it’s incorporated into the living room as furniture, covered with a pretty piece of fabric and passed off as an oddly balanced end table, or shoved into the bottom of the closet and used as a shoe rack, or tucked carefully into a corner, uncovered, but as hidden as possible, such as my own. It carried our lives here, balanced on our backs or tugged along behind us, and it will eventually carry our lives away. It’s the only thing we’re guaranteed to take back with us, in one form or another.
And in my opinion, it’s rather underappreciated. In many cases, even abused. On my first trip abroad, my big red roller bag blindly followed me, its brand new little wheels getting all scraped up and bruised, throughout the streets of London. I was careful at first. I avoided puddles and gently lowered it down any steps, and never tugged at its handle too gruffly. From my window seat before take-off, I looked on in horror as the airport baggage handlers yanked bag after bag from the truck and threw them menacingly through the air and onto the plane’s conveyor belt, where they slammed and crashed into one another, looking broken and sad. As I saw my big red roller bag appear, I turned away and fidgeted with the seat-back tray in front of me, telling myself it was just a suitcase. It couldn’t feel the pain the baggage handlers ruthlessly doled out.
At London Heathrow, my heart caught in my throat in anticipation each time a piece of luggage popped out of the airport bowels and slid onto the baggage claim belt, where onlookers either admired or questioned its owner’s sense of travel style. Where was my bag? A black, oddly shaped trash bag, tied at the top with red rope, slid by, causing several murmurs and raising a few eyebrows, until a man with a tiny boy by his side grabbed the bag, untied it, and unleashed, to the child’s delight, a stroller. The crowd returned its attention to the carousel. Bag after bag plopped onto the conveyer belt, which ran endless laps around and around, showing off its goods.
Soon the crowd had plucked out most of the items, leaving just a few tattered and crumpled unclaimed duffels, and it was clear that baggage claiming for my flight was coming to a close. By this time, my palms were itching and my throat had gone dry at the prospect of spending two weeks in a foreign land with nothing other than my puny, pointless little carryon backpack. Just as the last of the passengers picked up their things to leave, a thud came from within the carousel, causing heads to turn, and seconds later my big red roller bag raised itself up and out of the airport bowels, then it turned casually onto its side and slid gracefully down to the belt. For an almost imperceptible second, the remaining crowd hesitated, drawn by the appearance of such a fine looking bag so late in the claiming game. They looked on in what I believe was envy as I proudly, yet carefully, claimed my big red roller bag.
Such was the beginning of my love for the big red roller bag. A love which has bloomed over the years to produce adventures and wanderings, stories and photographs, experiences and friendships. And today, ten years after that first trip, I find myself worried about the big red roller bag. It has been stuffed well beyond capacity, then thrown ruthlessly to the ground (not by my own hands, of course), or hurriedly dragged down dozens of steps, or yanked up stairs, or sat upon, or left to topple over onto itself (all of which I feel horribly about), and all of that abuse is starting to show. There’s a hole in the seam on the side, the color is no longer bright, the wheels wobble feebly under even the most modest of weight, an audible groan can be heard each time I try to zip it up.
Yet there it sits, patiently in the corner, with neither complaint nor hostility, a friendly presence, waiting till I’m once again ready. Ready to stuff it to the gills, roll it from this room and into a plane and on to whatever is to come next. I know it’s silly to love an object, but I love you, big red roller bag, and I hope you can see me through till the end of what has turned out to be a rather long adventure. After this, you will take an extremely well earned vacation. I promise.

The Year Book

Thank you, kind goat herder, for answering my grammatically bizarre questions about your little herd of baby goats in a way that I could understand. Thank you for letting me stare at them with you for a while yesterday and for treating me like anyone else you had met that day. I think you’re my favorite stranger ever.

Thank you, little noodle shop boy and tea shop girl. You’re both very young, but you seem more mature than the majority of my students. Thank you for always giving me a smile, listening so patiently to my choppy order, and providing food and drink advice for free. You might not know it, but I buy stuff from you as an excuse to hang out with you, no matter how briefly.

Thank you, dear student T, for walking and talking with me, inviting me to different events, coming to my office hours, going out of your way to help me, and for not once making me feel like an exotic beast on display at the zoo.

You, too, little students O and L. You’re very different from the others, but in a good way. Thank you for showing me that this place can have variety and a longing for the outside world. Your quirkiness and your ideas are gorgeous treasures that I hope you never lose.

Finally, thank you teacher N, for understanding so much. I appreciate your open mind and your honest words. You’ve made life here much more bearable and I really can’t imagine being here without you.

I hope this list only grows.

Lost

There are countless ways to get lost in China, or at least in Chongqing. You can get lost outside, navigating through the winding mazes of narrow streets, beeping bikes, tall buildings, shouting vendors and steep stairs, or you can get lost on a full-beyond-capacity bus by missing your stop and ending up in a part of town you’ve never been to before, even though it looks exactly like where you wanted to go. Everywhere looks like where you wanted to go. Or you can get lost inside, wandering around a many-storied, multi-escalatored mega-mall that connects to four other many-storied, multi-escalatored mega-malls.
The malls here confound me. And the fact that I can spend an entire day exploring the many layered bowels of just one frightens me. And I didn’t even see the whole thing, nor did I go into most of the stores. I just walked. Around and around, up and up. I’m convinced this mall itself never ended, but I eventually had to give up on the endeavor. Especially when I reached the top floor and there, magically, was an exit. To the street level. I was on the sixth floor of the mall, thinking I had long ago left the option to easily exit behind, on the first floor, where I had entered. But there I was, on the top floor, blinking at the light streaming through giant glass doors and the cars zooming by outside.
At first I thought it was a trick of some sort. Beyond the doors lie another section of the mall and a gigantic movie screen showing images meant to make the shoppers feel like they’re on the first floor, giving them the impression that they can leave at any time. But surprise! You’ve found the coat check and you now have to spend another 4 hours finding the exit on the first floor. Haha, gotcha! Well, I wouldn’t let them fool me. I kept my hopes low and gingerly approached the trick exit. Expecting resistance, looking for any sign of a giant movie screen, which is entirely plausible in Chongqing, I pushed on the doors. They swung heavily open and a stream of smoggy air brushed past me and dissipated into the mall. It was real. Real smoggy air. I took a few steps. I was really outside. The cars weren’t actors in a movie, they were real. Real smoggy cars. Huh.
I turned around to look back at the now shut glass doors, reflecting my confused image. I looked lost. And tired. And really, really, unnaturally tall. I’m not sure how long I stared at my giant, mutated reflection, while cars darted to and fro behind me. Something had melted down in my brain and was taking its time to recover rational thought. Finally, my image was swiped away by two young women emerging from the mall, shopping bags dangling at their wrists. They giggled and chattered and glanced at me a million times until I forced myself into motion and launched back into the mall, as much as I disliked it. That sixth-floor outside world, though real, could not be comprehended, nor navigated, by me. Perhaps next time.
Retracing my steps as quickly and accurately as possible, I fled. I flew down escalators, brushed by meandering shoppers, ignored hullo!s left and right, resisted the draw of numerous cafes, stopped only once to eye a comfy looking sweater, and just forty minutes later, I was staring at the exact same scene I had seen on the 6th floor. But I was now on the first floor. Wasn’t I? Giant glass doors. Cars zooming by outside. The doors swung open and a gust of smoggy air entered the mall. Real smoggy air.
I walked out and this time I resisted the urge to glance back at the glass doors with their confused foreigner staring out. I didn’t let myself think about how strange this place is. I just walked until I found my bus stop. That’s the craziest thing. No matter how lost I feel here, I never am. I’ll be approaching absolute certainty that I’m miles away from where I want to be, and then the bus I’m looking for blares its horn at me as it drives by and, without thinking, I run to catch it. All anxiety dissipates. Easy as pie.

From Home

I sort of forgot about how much I love receiving stuff from home until yesterday. My mom sent me a letter over a month ago and a small package about 2 weeks ago and I picked them both up yesterday. The package smelled like cinnamon and chocolate and home. I've grown deeply attached to the USPS flat rate box. Its presence means presents. And tasty treats. And sweet little notes written on everything. Thank you, Mom and Ozzie. You guys are so thoughtful.
If you ever feel like stopping by to say hi, or want to send a little letter or package my way, please feel free to do so using the address below. You need to use both the Chinese and the English, so it's probably easiest to just copy and paste the below into a word document and print it out. Bonus cookies if you copy it by hand :)

重庆市渝北空港桃源大道1000号
Erin Aldrich / An Xue
1000 Tao Yuan Avenue
Konggang Yubei Dist.
Chongqing China 401120

Comfort for all

Perhaps the point of all of this is redefining comfort. Not just for myself, but for my students, my colleagues, the vendors I buy fruit from, the ladies who sweep the stairs, the guards who patrol the halls, even the people I casually pass on the street. Of course I’m going to feel uncomfortable, being the foreigner. I’m going to flounder through language mistakes and get off at the wrong bus stop and drop chopsticks and sweat buckets and go through innumerable awkward moments - hours, even. That’s a given. But pushing the comfort levels of other people, the people who live here, simply by being present? I never expected that.
The window of my apartment overlooks the main hub of campus, right by the cafeteria and the track, where just about every single student passes every day. I can watch the campus thrive from here. I see students walking to class, chatting with one another, teasing each other, bouncing a basket ball back and forth, jogging to class late. I see them from here and they look perfectly content, going about their business. Then I leave my apartment and walk down the stairs and join them, adding myself to the mix, and the whole scene goes to pot. The basketballs stop bouncing, the teasing ceases, the jogger’s step falters.
A little wake of discomfort follows me everywhere I go. Last week, at my favorite noodle shop, I heard the waiters arguing over who was going to help me. They weren’t arguing because they both wanted to take my order, they were arguing because neither of them wanted to. This was the first time it hit me. I make people uncomfortable for no other reason than being foreign. I’ve since been back several times and, though they’re very friendly, there’s always a hint of tension in the air, not just from the staff, but from the other customers, too. Like I might burst into flames at any moment, right in front of their eyes, so they better keep glancing over as not to miss anything.
I wonder if Chinese people who go to America feel disappointed when they arrive and no one stares at them, nor shouts “ni hao!” at them every few minutes. Diversity is one of America’s greatest strengths and something I’ve been taking for granted my entire life. At what point does a person, or a group of people, become comfortable with being around someone who does not have the same traits as them, to the degree that skin tone becomes invisible, hair color melts away, and blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes all have the same exact function? I’m looking forward to the day when the scene outside my window will not be spoiled by my presence, and the waiters won’t think twice about jotting down my jaozi order, and everyone can just be themselves.

I'm lovin' it

It started about a year ago, with one innocent visit. I was with a friend in Bucharest and she decided to get a coffee at Starbucks. I was just going to go in and look around and chuckle at how the chain really does not vary in appearance no matter where in the world you are, but then I decided oh what the heck, and bought a coffee for myself. 19 lei worth. It brought back a lot of memories. Good memories. Coffee shop memories. Non-Starbucks coffee shop memories.
We sat at a table with comfy chairs and chatted, warming our hands around our mugs, just like I used to do at my old favorite coffee shops. Up until then, I hadn’t had a Starbucks coffee in a very long time. Years. Up until then, I had done a very decent job of cutting a company I had somewhere along the line deemed unworthy out of my life. That’s where it started. Or, you could say, that’s where it ended. At a Starbucks in Bucharest, my long-term avoidance of corporate America and fast food nation ended.
What followed was a sad downward spiral into some of the horrible places I had taken measures to avoid for years. Dinner at Pizza Hut, followed by a McFlurry at Mickey D’s. Wake up to a scone and a latte at Starbucks. Repeat. I soothed my feelings of treachery by telling myself it was only while I was in Bucharest, which was once every other month or so. But a nagging guilt tainted each sip and every bite. I remember the first few times I went abroad and snorted at the other American tourists eating in places like TGI Friday’s or Ruby Tuesdays or McDonald’s. Why on earth travel if those are the places you are going to eat? Silly American tourists.
Back then it never would have occurred to me that maybe those Americans weren’t tourists. Maybe they lived there and maybe that was their occasional treat to themselves. A treat that made them feel guilty and weak and ashamed, but gave them a few glimpses of a comfortable place far, far away. It might not be the restaurant or the coffee shop they would have picked if they were in America, but because it’s the only option for something some-what familiar, they went with it. To those American diners who I snorted at years ago, I am sorry.
And now that not one, but two Starbucks shops are only an hour-long bus ride away, tempting me every day I have off, I have to put myself in check and rationalize the glee I’ve started feeling every time I know that a Starbucks is near. There is a part of me that still, deeply and possibly irrationally, dislikes the chain and I will never go to a Starbucks in America. I will spend the extra 30 minutes and dollar to hunt down a local coffee shop. That’s because those local coffee shops exist in America, where here, Starbucks is the coffee monopoly and I have not found another option that provides both decent coffee and a comfortable place to drink it. The day I find Chongqing’s version of Bibo, I will be there in a heart beat, thankful for no longer having to feel the guilt I now associate with drinking coffee, a habit I have found impossible to shake.
All of this has been coming about in my head because there’s a WalMart in Chongqing. It’s only 15 minutes away from my campus. I’m going there tomorrow and, this is the worst thing I’ve ever said in my life, I’m excited about it. I’m excited to go to WalMart. Good gracious, what has happened to me? It’s such a strange feeling, being excited about going to a place that I loathe. Starbucks is one thing, but WalMart? I am a horrible let-down of a human being. A traitor no longer eligible for the title semi-cool. Good night.

Messy

What does it take before a person’s life is considered a mess? Is it generally addiction related, relationship related, incompetence related, or what? If a person knew only the following things about me and nothing else, what would the conclusions be? I’m just shy of 30 and rarely live in one place for more than a year. I haven’t held down a full time job for more than a year and a half and have had a smattering of random part time jobs. I have two bachelor’s degrees, neither of which I’m actually putting to use, both of which took me seven years to earn. Most of my closest friends I see less than once a year and I often forget to wish them a happy birthday or a merry Christmas. My mom has been taking care of my dog for the past 10 years and I kind of question my ability to properly care for a pet anymore. My little brothers are more used to talking to me on a computer than in person. I have zero savings, no house, no car, no career, no marriage, no kids, no nothing. All I’ve accumulated are experiences and gigabytes upon gigabytes of pictures. To some, I’m sure, my life is a mess. I’ve never thought about it until today, for some reason. I’ve never thought about what it takes to consider a person’s life a mess. I don’t know quite yet if I should label this life of mine a mess, or just a convoluted maze. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I’m young and have all the time in the world to figure things out, but some day not too far away, people are going to stop saying that, and all the time in the world will start to run short.
I start teaching full time tomorrow and I damn well better like it.

New Campus

My university changes every day. When I came for the site visit about two months ago, it was unlivable. Only the skeletons of buildings existed and not an ounce of green could be found on campus, which is strange for here. Now the teaching buildings are complete enough to hold classes all week long, the student dorms are abuzz with life (6 lives per tiny dorm room, to be exact), the soccer field is thickly coated in Astroturf and little oases exist in the most unexpected places. Despite the construction noise that has become the soundtrack to my life, the plethora of bottomless pits waiting to be stumbled into and the red dust hanging in the air and coating EVERYTHING, watching a campus spring up around me is pretty cool. CQIPC used to be in the heart of Chongqing, right across the street from the Olympic stadium and minutes by foot from a monorail stop. Downtown, in all of its skyscraping glory, was only a 15 minute monorail ride away. Now, at the new campus, it takes two hours by two different buses to wind up in downtown. We are literally at the end of the city. Beyond this campus, there is nothing but gently rolling green hills. And I think I’m growing to love it. Across the street from the university is what I would call a village, even though it’s still considered Chongqing. There, chickens run through the streets, which are too narrow with too many stairs to allow for cars, and people sit in front of their houses playing mahjong and chatting. Little kids run around pant-less and gardens are interspersed between the run down houses. I walk through there and I feel much more foreign, but some how much more right, than I ever do when I walk through downtown. I thought I would hate being in a huge city and far away from all the attractions, but who needs another towering skyscraper with a starbucks? My attractions come in the form of clucking chickens and counting stairs. I’m a little worried about my village, though. Future plans for this university include taking over the area across the street and turning it into a shopping district for the campus. I hope those plans include leaving the chickens, pant-less kids and mahjong players alone. We shall see.

Other than the possible demise of the village, I can’t wait to see how my campus develops over the next two years. It’s nice to be a part of it from the beginning, when a lot of things are just as new to everyone else as they are to me. We briefly visited the old campus during the site visit and it is puny in comparison to this place. Many universities are doing exactly what CQIPC is doing – selling their old downtown campus and building a new suburb one – because they need to modernize and to accommodate for an increasing student population. It’s hard right now because all of the teachers live near the old campus, so they’re doing that two hour commute every day, twice. But the monorail will eventually come all the way here and our campus will have its very own stop. I have the feeling the stop will open on the day I leave, but it’s still exciting to think that some day getting to downtown from here will be an hour long coast on the swanky monorail. Until then, I’ll savor walks through my chicken-lined village and venture into the overwhelming depths of downtown sparingly.

Training

Before anyone can begin their higher education as a college student, they must complete military training. The universities provide the training to all incoming freshmen and it's during the first 2 or 3 weeks of the semester. Currently, my school is on day 3, even though it's Saturday. My apartment overlooks the field where all of the training occurs and I've spent many minutes over the past few days observing the drills. Mostly what I've seen has been a lot of organized standing and sitting and walking around with lots of shouting. At all hours of the day, and many hours of the night, there's shouting. It sounds to me like they're yelling "Wheel! Of! Fortune!!" but I'm pretty sure they're just counting to four (yi! er! san! si!) as they do some sort of exercise. I don't know how they do it. It's been over 40/100 degrees the past 3 days and they're dressed in full camouflage suits standing or sitting still in the open sun. Granted, I am a pansy when it comes to heat, but it's got to be awfully sweaty out on that field. For a couple of days last week, my site mate and I contemplated asking our supervisor if we could join in the training, especially since there's very little for us to do right now because nearly all of our students are freshmen. Luckily we didn't pursue the idea. I've been hunkering down in my gloriously air conditioned apartment and getting some lesson planning and studying done. On Wednesday, the high is supposed to dip to 27/80 and I am counting down the days. Oh, to walk outside and be comfortable.

When I do toughen up and get outside, I experience a roller coaster of thoughts, especially when I'm alone. I'm trying to figure out the best way to handle being stared at and/or called to. Even though I'm in a huge city with lots of foreigners, we are still few and far between and I'm on the outskirts of the city. As I walk, I feel my hackles go up as a hand full of faces turn. I see a girl glance at me and whisper something to her friend, who immediately turns to look at me. She turns back to her friend and they both start giggling and whispering to each other. Maybe they were talking about the building behind me, who knows. I shrug and walk on, feeling confused and slyly checking my fly. A group of boys walks by. They stare, but smile, so I smile back. Okay. That was okay. A few minutes later, I walk by a building that's under construction. From within, I hear someone shout "Hello! Hello!!", but I see no one. I continue walking as another Hello rings out, followed by some string of Chinese that I can't understand. Whatever. I can't even see the dude and he's yelling at me. I give no response and ignore the subsequent hellos. My walk continues. I pass several people who seem to be purposefully not looking at me, though the side-ways glances are still noticeable. Thanks, I guess. Next a girl walks briskly past me. As she does, she smiles brightly and says “hello!” I smile back, a little surprised, and say hi. Well, she was nice. I hope I seemed nice. Huh. What next. I approach an old man who's carrying two heavy baskets that are slung over his shoulders with a thick bamboo rod. As we pass each other, I look to see if he's staring at me. He is. I match his stare. Despite his obviously heavy load, we nearly turn around backwards to stare at each other as we walk. Finally, he turns back and I breathe a sigh of relief. I know. I look weird. I dress weird. I sweat a lot. I know us foreigners are very very foreign here. I know. I get it. You're curious. You're surprised. You're happy I'm here or you’re not. You want me to feel welcome here or you want to make fun of me. Okay. So why can't I just deal and not let it get to me? Do I try to respond to all the hellos? Do I stare back? Do I smile at the giggles? Do I walk with head down and eyes glued to the side walk? I can’t figure it out. Each time I go for a walk, I feel humiliated, annoyed, rude, awkward, surprised and happy at some point. Every single time. It’s not just a walk anymore. It’s a parade. I’ll be here on this campus for two years and I’m going to make it a goal that I will one day go for a walk and feel nothing but happy. All we need is to get used to each other.

An Xue

I was almost a Stephanie. The top two picks on a pretty long list of possible baby names came down to Erin and Stephanie. We still have the list somewhere. It was written before my parents knew I was a girl and on the backside a few boy's names are scrawled. If I had been born with a Y chromosome, I'd be Anthony right now. I wonder what he'd be like. I'm not sure how Erin beat out Stephanie, or Anthony for that matter, maybe it was a coin toss, or my quarter of Irish blood taking charge, but I'm glad she won. I don't know how much really depends on name, but I'm pretty sure the Stephanie me would be an entirely different me.
I now have another name. When I arrived in China, my Chinese name was ready and waiting for me. An Xue, pronounced more like On Shoe-ay, was given to me by our training site language teachers, who all sat down with our pictures and our English names and decided what would suit each of the 23 of us best. Like in Romania, names are said family name first, then given name. An is my family name, meaning peaceful, and Xue is my given name and means snow, so my Chinese name is Peaceful Snow. All pale jokes aside, I like my name. During training, I was called by this name by all of the teachers, my host family and many of my fellow trainees. It has become part of who I am and I can feel An Xue taking on a life of her own. I hope I can cultivate her life into something unique and meaningful. I've spent 29 years turning into Erin, good and bad, and I hope I'm able to do something halfway respectable for An Xue over the next two years. It's a little intimidating, a clean slate. A name waiting for its history to start.
So far, An Xue has eaten hundreds of kilos of rice and has developed strong cravings for the grain when it's not eaten at least once a day. She has also acquired a taste for spicy food, which was previously seen as an impossible feat. She can use chopsticks to eat peanuts, noodles, eggs, pork, oatmeal, cow tongue, cow tail, banana, apple, pig lips AND spinach. She can also spit fish bones directly on the table without thinking too much about it. She can haggle for prices, even though her language skills are laughable (literally), and she will eventually figure out how to get from A to B, be it by bus, by foot, by train, by monorail or by taxi. She's got squatting down to an art and rarely misses. She can strike up elementary conversations with strangers, though those conversations don't go very far. Yet. Basically, she can survive. Now it's time to get the real story started. Teaching starts next week, just one class for now, but hopefully it will get the life of An Xue rolling a bit faster.

Peace Corps, Part Two

In December, a friend of mine told me about her plans to transfer from Romania to the Peace Corps Nicaragua program, an idea which had never occurred to me. I had considered extending my service in Romania or transferring to the TEFL program there, but my enthusiasm for staying in Romania, as much as I love it, eventually waned and was replaced with the desire to experience something new. I talked with our country director about transfer options and China's TEFL program quickly rooted itself into my brain and I applied to transfer. And was accepted. So here I sit after being home for one month and getting reacquainted with all the glorious things that I love about Nevada, those dusty hills and that dry sage breeze and all my family and friends, knowing that in one more month, I'll be back on a plane heading even farther away. To Chengdu for another round of PST and then to who knows where for two years of teaching English to university students. Why am I doing this all over again? I certainly went through some rough and low times, but now that Romania is in the past, those bad times pale in comparison to the good times. The mean people have been nearly forgotten and the kind ones bring my memories to life and make me smile. The government's corruption can no longer compete with the people's compassion. And I don't want this challenge to be over yet. I'm not ready to be an RPCV and to find that elusive next thing to do and to decide what my long term future entails. I still don't know what I want to do, so I'll continue with this temporary thing that is changing who I am and making me love life and breaking my heart all at the same time, over and over again. Put me back on the roller coaster, I'm not done yet.

Renomania

I've been home for a week now and feel surprisingly ok. Based on the stories I've heard about returning home after two years, I was expecting all kinds of anxiety attacks and sleeping issues and instability, but I feel fine. A little out of step and weird, but fine. Perhaps I'm not yet in the clear, though. Both Reno and Romania feel like imaginary places, like they belong in a book of myths and legends. From Dracula's Backyard to the Biggest Little City: A Tale of Two Towns. Or something like that. I like how Romania feels right now. I love the country in a different, more powerful way now that it's a memory. It's a warm, light place in my brain that, when focused on too intently, can bring tears to the eyes. I hope that feeling never fades.

There was an older Romanian woman on the flight from London to Dallas. She was alone and could speak no English. At Heathrow, I heard her ask a man if he spoke Romanian. After repeating herself three times and getting the response "what?" three times, she gave up and started shuffling through her purse. Her hands shook a little. Surrounded by a sea of English speakers for the first time in two years, I was immediately drawn to her, and found myself clinging to this last little piece of Romania for as long as possible. We found a great deal of comfort in the other's presence and I couldn't help but get choked up as she boarded her plane to Tulsa, Oklahoma an hour before my flight to Reno. Goodbye, Romania. You kept me company all the way to America and I'm very grateful for that.

My mom, sister and sister's boyfriend met me at the airport with a welcome home bouquet and balloons. The length of space between where I could see them and where I could actually hug them seemed to last a decade and I think I may have pushed a few meandering fellow-passengers out of the way. Sorry about that. Tears of joy are strange creatures and I'm still trying to figure them out. Obviously, I have done alot of crying over the past three weeks. Tears for leaving, tears for missing and tears for arriving. But for now, I'm just happy to be home. I've really missed this place.

Szia

The final night in Sfantu Gheorghe. My two very heavy bags are packed, this amazing apartment is as clean as I could get it, I have said enough goodbyes to run my eyes dry and I have six more hours until I need to leave for my final checkout in Bucharest. It goes without saying, I can't believe my time here is already up. I've been telling everyone (including myself) that I'll be back in two years for a visit. It's the only way I can get myself to leave. This place and these people have given me something too wonderful to permanently leave behind. As Arnie is known to say from time to time, I'll be back. There's no doubt in my mind. Thank you, Saint George. I love you and I will miss you more than you'll ever know. Va pup.

Mistakes

You'd think living in a different culture for two years is long enough to learn the ropes and to know how to avoid making mistakes, right? Well, not for me. I haven't made any hideous horrible mistakes, but, with all of these semi goodbye parties and gatherings I've been hosting and attending, I've made quite a few little baby mistakes.

Mistake 1: Coffee. I forgot that Romanians typically like their coffee very strong and very small. So when I brought out a tray of large mugs brimming with weak American style coffee for my tutor and some other friends, they immediately and kindly asked to pour half back into the pot, half of which ended up on the counter due to my own shakiness. They drank the rest of the coffee without complaint, though I'm sure it was too weak for their liking. Oops.
Mistake 2: Diplomas. I also forgot how much people here love diplomas. You can hand out diplomas for ANYTHING and often times they are expected after a special class, meeting or session. During the party at the EPA, somebody not in the English class asked when the English class was going to get their diplomas. It had never even crossed my mind to make them diplomas, but of course they deserve them and how could I not have thought of that? Four hours later, I was busily designing generic diplomas for both the English class and the drama club, which were received with beaming smiles. Phew.
Mistake 3: Cake. A friend made a cake for one of the going away parties. It was a beautiful huge chocolate thing that looked heavenly. After they brought it and some presents out, I hugged and pup'd them and opened the presents and then we all sat back down and started chatting. Time went on and I kept staring at the cake...wondering when we were going to eat it. Finally, after twenty tortuous minutes, I asked if we should slice into it. The lady who made it said, a little exasperated, "We're all waiting for you to cut it! You have to serve it because it's your cake!" I jumped into action and five minutes later, we were devouring the cake. It was delicious.

They're all little harmless mistakes, but still mistakes that a local wouldn't make. I wonder what mistakes I'd be making after living here for ten years. Or would I then finally be a pro.

To Infinity

The Drama Club put on its last play of the year tonight. It was a spin on fairy tales and involved Prince Charming and Snow White a year after their wedding. Special appearances were made by Chuck Norris, Bob Marley, the Wicked Witch of the West, Hansel (of Hansel and Gretel), Little Red Riding Hood, and even Death himself showed up. The students wrote the entire script and designed the set (we actually had a set this time) and came up with their costumes and did everything on their own. Yet, for some reason, they don't think they can continue on next year without me. Although I'm touched, it's nonsense. I wish they could see how talented they are. We'll meet up one more time next week for a little goodbye party, then my time with the Saint George Drama Club will come to a close, most likely tearfully. All I can do is hope that the club will still be running when I come back for a visit, 5 years down the line. That would be so cool.

Today also marked my goodbye party at the EPA. Despite not going in much at all over the past few months, nearly the entire agency stopped by to bid me farewell and munch on a cookie or two. It made me realize how much I did, at certain times, enjoy working there and how nice some of the people are. For a while, I had it in mind to leave without really saying goodbye, but I'm so glad I didn't do that. Several of them have been a part of my life for the past two years.

I feel surprisingly numb. I had my first going away party on Monday with the 5 people I've worked the most with at the EPA. When they brought out the surprise cake and gifts, I started to cry. It didn't last long and wasn't too over-dramatic, but the cake and gifts and kindness were unexpected and really hit home. I'm leaving. I'm going to miss these people and it seems that they're going to miss me, too. Since then, I think something inside has shut down a little bit and isn't registering all of these goodbyes and isn't letting me cry. It'll wake up at some point. Maybe in Bucharest. Maybe on the plane. Maybe at home. It'll wake up and want to speak in Romanian and wonder why I've left and crave the comforting te pups, but none will be found. Hopefully I'll be around my family and friends by then and their presence will undoubtedly lessen the shock.

If Iceland's volcano or any other sort of natural disaster doesn't get in the way, I have one week left in Sfantu Gheorghe and 9 days left in Romania. I'm so sad to leave, I can't wait to get home, I'm so sad to leave, I can't wait to get home, repeat to infinity.

Little Lambs Eat Ivy

A little warning: this entry might be a bit much for animal lovers...

Last Friday, Mihaela, Hana, Auntie, little Luca and I drove to a nearby village to pick up the most important part of our Easter feast. By the time we arrived, the lamb had already been killed and hung eerily from a rafter in the barn. It hung upside down with a red streak across its woolly neck and a bucket on the floor underneath, catching all the drippings. The lower half of the legs had been removed.

As I squinted from a safe distance, I caught sight of three little lamb bodies already skinned and cleaned hanging in the back. Our small friend had a ways to go before it was ready to be packaged up in the trunk of Mihaela's Dacia. I watched as a lone lamb emerged from a separate barn, took in the four bundles - one fluffy and creme colored and much too similar to itself, the others smooth and sinewy white and somewhat sinister - and, with two sad bleats, retreated back inside the barn.

Before my stomach could turn too much, we were ushered into a small kitchen and served coffee and fried patties of some sort by Mihaela's aunt, who took great strides in ensuring that I and the rest of the guests had plenty to eat and drink. Small talk and banter ensued and my mind quickly stopped following the conversation and wandered out to the barn and its four little tenants. I followed Luca's initiative and darted outside at the first opportunity. He, being almost two years old, was more curious about the outdoors world than the indoors one.

We wandered over to our prized lamb, who was now being attended to by an overall-ed man with a sharp knife and a surprisingly kind smile. The progress that had occurred in the past 10 minutes was significant. It now looked as though the lamb was wearing a wool skirt that, flipped upside down as it was, dangled at its chest. The white stockinged legs and lower body lay exposed. The man obviously knew what he was doing. With gentle punches and flicks of the knife between the skin and the muscle, he separated the two and progressed in quick circles, around and around the lamb's body, until the skirt became a cape that hung from the lamb's shoulders and nearly touched the floor.

Luca was just as transfixed by this process as me. We stood there, side by side, watching a dead animal lose its fur and become meat. Right before our eyes. I wondered how I would be different if I had witnessed such a thing for the first time when I was two instead of twenty nine, and continued witnessing such things throughout my life. Would I still feel a weakness towards every baby animal on the planet? Would I still shudder every time I saw a badly limping stray dog wander into the street? Would I still feel a distinct difference between the lamb meat on my plate and the lamb bleating in the barn? As the man prepared to remove the skin from the lamb's face, I turned to leave, knowing my limit for the day had been reached. Luca, however, did not follow me.

The next day, I helped Mihaela prepare some traditional lamb recipes. Luckily, the lamb had been chopped up into manageable pieces by the time I arrived and I spent the day dicing the lamb's heart, liver, kidneys and lungs, all while its tongue poked out at me from a bowl on the other side of the table. We also prepped some of the meat to go into a ciorba (traditional soup) and to be roasted with potatoes. The following day, Easter Sunday, my friend and I arrived and we all sat down to a table of lamb dishes and ate to our heart's content. This proved to be the closest I have come to seeing a meal through from start to end.

Last Easter, the piatza sold lambs by the half. I had always assumed that I would pass out at the sight of the innards of any once living being, but as I strolled through the market that day, perusing the aisles of half-bodied lambs, I found myself more fascinated than grossed out, like I was revisiting the interesting and unseen side of Biology 101. The piatza buzzed with shoppers probing and prodding different parts of the lambs' entrails, discussing signs of health and quality.

Where in the US could you go to buy a lamb by the half or see one being skinned and prepped for cooking? Not that it's something I want to witness regularly, but it's a part of the food process that seems to be locked away and inaccessible where I grew up, which leads to a person believing they will pass out at the sight of animal intestines. Or leads to a person not understanding the connection between the piece of meat on their fork and the lamb frolicking in the field.

I'm sure there is a sizable population in America of people who witness these things daily, on farms, in butcheries, etc., but I have the feeling the average American is much like myself and has a huge gap of vast nothingness between the image of an animal and the image of its meat, where here, people start understanding the process when they're two and probably have a more accurate idea of what it means to be a carnivore.

Since being here, I've become vegetarian when I cook at home, but almost never refuse meat when it's offered to me at someone's home, especially around the holidays. I feel better about eating that meat, knowing that it most likely came from a nearby village and was carefully tended to by a person with a kind smile and a few healthy and happy (for the time being) animals in the barn out back.

April's Fool

No, I do not know the child in the picture above, but he would squat down and make that face every time I pointed the camera at him. I bet he never knew it would get him featured on my blog. Heh.

Anisoara

Today I said what I think may have been my first goodbye to a local friend. Anisoara is leaving on Saturday to visit her daughter in Virginia and won't be back until mid May, a couple of weeks after I'll have left. Her daughter moved to the states a few years ago to be with her American husband and last year at about this time, their twins were born. A little boy and a little girl, the boy with dark green eyes and the girl with bright blue. I know because Anisoara has shown me countless pictures of them. She has also shown me countless pictures of her daughter, her husband, her house in the countryside, her dog, her life.

The first time I got a peek into this quirky lady's life was two years ago, when I stayed at her apartment during my site visit. When I think back to that weekend, which was my first introduction to the city of Sfantu Gheorghe, to my assigned agency (the EPA) and to the people I'd be working with for the next two years, one word comes to mind: awkward. The whole weekend was full of awkward, especially with Anisoara. But not a bad awkward, a very comical and enjoyable awkward.

In the mornings, she'd poke her head into my room and say "Ereen, please come to chicken." I'd get up and go into the kitchen (aka chicken), where she had already set out a typical Romanian light breakfast of cucumbers, tomatoes, eggs and bread. As we munched and tried to think of things to say (my Romanian and her English were at about the same level: beginner), she would start dancing to the music playing in the background as she ate. Just a little bit, a little sway and dip of the shoulders, a little bob of the head and a little wobble on the stool. Then she'd start to hum along with the tune and clearly there was no other option than to join in. So there we'd sit, eating the breakfast she'd prepared, awkwardly dancing and humming in our seats. And smiling.

On the last night of my site visit, I was in my room pretending to study when she knocked on the door, walked in, sat down next to me and opened up a photo album on her lap. During that entire weekend, I had hardly learned anything about her, but through those pictures I learned volumes. It was easy. She'd point to a picture of a young, beautiful smiling lady in a park and say "my daughter, Virginia" and I'd nod. Then a picture of a handsome man "daughter husband" and I'd nod. Next came an old picture of a man in the snow "My husband, dead" and I frowned. She never explained how he died. The next picture was newer and showed a man working on a ship. She said "new husband" and I nodded. It went on like this for over an hour and I learned the basic story of my new friend's life.

There is total truth in the phrase "a picture's worth a thousand words", especially when those thousand words are in a foreign language. Just this week, Anisoara showed up at work with a new stack of photos to show her friends and I looked over every single one of them. She brings in new photos every month or so and I never tire of looking at them, for some reason. Especially the ones of her daughter. I think it's because we're leading opposite lives, in a way. She being the Romanian in America and me being the American in Romania.

Anisoara has always been the top attendee at my English hour, almost never missing a class, and I hope those lessons help her out over the next two months as she gets a sample of what I consider home. Today we kissed eachother's cheeks and hugged and I tried not to think too deeply as I said "mai vorbim, mai vorbim" (we'll talk more, we'll talk more) as we parted. Anisoara's one of the few people I've met here who almost always has a smile on her face and a hearty laugh ready to go. I'll miss her.

Make Something Good

You know how sometimes you discover certain songs at the exact right moment? The moment when that song rings its truest for you, and if you had discovered it 6 months ago, you might not have even noticed it (which would have been impossible in this case because the album was released a month or two ago, but still...). Last night I found Laura Veirs' album July Flame and listened to the last track - Make Something Good - maybe twenty times. If you're a PCV at the end of your service, maybe it'll ring true to you, too. Or anyone who has had the best of intentions for something. Here are the lyrics, but even better -
here's the song.

(I hope this isn't some how illegal...)

I wanted to make something sweet
The blood inside the maple tree
The sunlight trapped inside the wood
Make something good

I wanted to make something strong
An organ pipe in a cathedral
That stays in tune through a thousand blooms
Make something good

It's gonna take a long, long time
But we're gonna make something so fine

I wanted to make something pure
Emerald field from steer manure
A wild-eyed child in a moonlit room
Make something good

I wanted to make something built to last
A bottled ship with a golden mast
And through the squall the course stays true
Make something good
Make something good

It's gonna take a long, long time
But we're gonna make something so fine
It's gonna take a long, long time,
But we're gonna make something so fine

- Laura Veirs, July Flame, Make Something Good

About Right

My apologies for talking so much about the looming end of my service on here, but I find it difficult to think of anything else right now. It's weird. The little knotted ball of anxiety that formed in my stomach just before I left home two years ago has returned. It's not like any other ball of anxiety. It's the lots-of-stress-and-tearful-farewells-on-the-horizon ball. The one that shakes you awake at 3am to ask where your original passport is and isn't calmed until you go and find it, just where you left it two years ago. The one that can't stop pondering the amount of material a person can accumulate in 24 months. The one that pitches the hardest each time you say goodbye to someone and wonder how many more times you'll get to say goodbye. Just when you seem to strike a balance in your life, a balance that gives you enough work to keep you involved and busy, enough free time to take long walks and learn to cook, enough friends to have weekend plans and tea times, and enough confidence to feel good about where you're at and what you're doing, it's time to wrap things up in a tidy package and say goodbye. When I signed up for the peace corps, one of the main things I was hesitant about was the two year commitment. Two years? Might as well sign my life away. Why isn't there a one year peace corps program? Well, once I reached my one year mark, the answer was obvious. After a year, I was truly still at the beginning. And if I word it in my head a certain way, I will always be at the beginning. So many unanswered questions and unrealized projects remain that it's difficult to feel like I've accomplished anything. BUT when I think about how hard I've tried and about the things I've been a part of and have witnessed, it all makes sense. It all seems about right. The past two years will never fit into a tidy, easy to handle package. They will remain in a massive heap on the attic floor. A heap that can be carefully and lovingly picked over, with forgotten shining treasures showing up in odd locations.

Unconditional

Now that my tutor's two year long maternity leave has ended, she's been back at the high school teaching English. So instead of tutoring lately, I've been going and observing her classes just to get a feel for what a more realistic, every day classroom is like instead of the "special-occasion" classes I've been teaching. The first class I observed was all tenth grade girls preparing for some sort of essay competition. I chose to sit quietly and unobtrusively in the back, hoping to blend into the wallpaper (as tends to be my norm) and disturb the class as little as possible. As a native English speaker, I figured the class would be a piece of cake and I'd know everything that was going on the whole time. Ha. After the students read the ideas they had written down for their essays, Miha went over conditionals. Conditionals are typically "if" statements, like "If you bake cookies, I will eat them". Simple, right? Well, there are a few different types of conditionals. Four, to be exact. There is the type 0 conditional, which contains present simple verbs in both the if clause and the main clause. For example, the sentence "If you heat cookie dough, it bakes" is a type 0 conditional. As Miha explained this and wrote on the chalk board, the students busily copied in their notebooks. Type 1 conditionals consist of an if clause with a present simple verb and a main clause with a future simple verb, such as "If you bake cookies too long, they will burn." Type 2 conditionals are used to express unreal situations in the present or future. At this point in the lecture, Miha caught my eye. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Am I incorrect?" It was at that moment, as all of the students turned to look at me, that I became aware of the expression on my face and immediately took action to correct it. I tried to untwist the look of utter confusion and fear into a smile and said "Oh, no. Looks good to me!" The students smiled and turned back towards the board just as the bell rang and Miha assigned the night's homework. Conditionals.
Thank you, stars, for the fact that high school was ten years ago.

The Other Shoe

Shortly after arriving in Romania (which occurred exactly two years ago today), I met a few volunteers who were at the end of their terms. They had just attended their Close of Service conference and were winding down their projects and disentangling themselves from life here. They seemed so knowledgeable back then, so wise. And calm. I couldn't wait to be in those comfy, well worn shoes. I didn't want to steal their plane tickets and go home, I didn't want to magically speed things up, I just hoped that I could make it to that point some day and emanate the same sereneness. Then, two months later, after a blink of the eye, those volunteers were gone. Poof. The end. I'm getting on a train tomorrow afternoon that will take me to the city of Sibiu, where my own Close of Service conference will be held. Then, two months later, I'll be boarding a plane Reno-bound...poof. The end. In many ways, I can't believe I made it. Two years ago, I think I would have pegged myself as the first to go home, but I like the fact that I am capable of surprising myself.

Stages

Tonight, after an enthusiastic session with the drama club and an interesting showing of Hamlet, I walked home with three of the club members and one of the teachers. The five of us chatted about science fiction novels, Harry Potter movies, Star Wars, Shakespeare and baked goods. We discussed the next play for the club and how difficult it is to work with the younger students. We laughed about how my voice gets high-pitched and quiet when I want the students to focus and stop being silly. Finally, as we went our separate ways, we joked about next year and how I won't be here. In the silent space between them and my front door, I pictured this place without me and felt the sliver of soon-to-be sorrow deepen. Another one of life's stages that will be sorely missed.

Erin Papi

I believe I have created a monster. A cookie monster, much like myself (I am indeed eating a cookie AT THIS VERY MOMENT). I like to make cookies and give them to people, so I've been doing that sporadically for my tutor over the past two years. Her son Luca will turn two in April and has taken on the energy and chaos of a tornado. Their apartment has one of those kitchen connecting living room connecting hallway connecting kitchen circles that any child or energetic dog would love to make themselves dizzy with and many times my tutoring session contains at least 5 minutes of watching Miha chase Luca around and around, until he's caught or takes a faulty step and plows full speed into the washer door, making it slam shut. As he's gotten older, he's been allowed to sample my cookie offerings and has developed a strong affinity for the snickerdoodle. So much so that the other day, as he ran his laps and Miha chased him, I pulled out the signature flimsy plastic baggie filled with goodies and he stopped dead in his tracks. "Erin papi?" he asked as he took a tentative step towards me, eyes wide. Papi means snack and the way he says "Erin" pretty much melts my heart. I confirm his hopes, "Da, Erin papi." I hand the bag to Miha and feel a bit dejected as his attention immediately snaps to her. By the time Miha gets the bag open and hands him a (possibly not so) well deserved snickerdoodle, he has said "Erin papi" about twenty times and has stretched to his absolute tallest tippy toes reaching for the bag. She thanks me for the cookies and asks me to please write the recipe down so she can make them. Apparently he asks for "Erin papi" every thirty minutes or so every day. I can't help but feel a small dash of pride at creating another cookie monster. I do not, however, endorse children eating cookies every day. Unless it's an Erin papi.

Lists

It seems to be customary for many volunteers to create some lists right about now, with a little over two months to go. One list to bring back the good memories, one list to bring back the not so good and one list to remind me of why I missed home so much. So, here goes, in no particular order.

List Number One: What I'll miss
1. My tutor Mihaela and her two-year-old son Luca (he was born just before I arrived) greeting me at the door every time I show up for tutoring and bidding me farewell each time I depart.

2. The little crafting adventures Anca, her three-year-old daughter Dodo (short for Theodora) and I embark on whenever we get together - whether it's painting eggs, baking cookies, planting tomatoes, creating Christmas ornaments, making paper stars or pressing juice, it never ceases to be awesome.

3. Hearing the drama club chatting excitedly from our classroom before I enter and getting a small sample of their uninhibited enthusiasm.

4. Letting the English Hour at the EPA slip into a brief gossip in Romanian session.

5. Responding to all of the goodbyes and thank yous after a successful American Corners class.

6. Visiting my favorite little craft shop and chatting with the kindest shop keeper in the world.

7. Going to the post office and picking up packages from the lady who knows me by name now...though I don't know hers.

8. Fresh fruits and veggies from the piata in summer.

9. Trains.

10. The view from my apartment.

11. The sounds of church bells and horse shoe clomps.

12. Wonderful volunteer friends, who I will hopefully see in the states some day.

13. Being able to walk everywhere.

14. Drinking tea and reading in my favorite coffee shop, Tein.

15. Wandering around our nature reserve, Reci.

16. Ease of TRAVEL.

17. Te pups.

18. Romanian and Hungarian.

I'm realizing this list could go on quite a while, so I'll end it here.


List Number Two: Things I Will Not Miss
1. Stray dogs and the poop that goes with them.

2. Knowing that my landlords (who I do actually really like, just not this part) could drop by unexpectedly at any moment to fill up my fridge and freezer with more of their own stuff.

3. The language barrier.

4. The pressure to always be out integrating and being a good, productive, useful volunteer.

5. The crazy corruption and bizarre bureaucracy that exist here.

6. Icy sidewalks that never get salted or shoveled.

7. Smelly, drunk, rude men. Especially on the trains.

8. Touchy train conductors.

9. The bubble-gum way things are often fixed.

10. The mischievous malicious mosquitoes.

11. Discrimination towards minorities, especially the Rroma.

12. Homophobia.

13. Late trains.

14. Grody bathrooms without toilet paper and/or hand soap.

15. The mold growing on some of my walls.

16. Crazy arse drivers.


List Number Three: What I'm Looking Forward To
1. Actually hanging out in person with my family and friends. Hugs.

2. Going for long walks with mom and Ozzie.

3. Meeting all the new babies and puppies and kitties and goats that people have acquired.

4. Kickboxing till I can't move.

5. Bibo and the American coffee culture.

6. Access to English books that I want to read.

7. Swimming in Lake Tahoe till I turn blue!

8. A wide variety of restaurants with a wide variety of food options.

9. Oh man, relearning moonlight sonata and all my other songs.

10. Shopping in stores with sizes and styles that I like.

11. Painting pottery at clay canvas.

12. Going to shows, concerts, plays and movies in a language that I can understand.

13. Weddings.

14. The clear, blue desert sky and the dusty brown hills. Nevada.

15. English.

16. Chocolate chips and all the other baking supplies I've been having shipped over.

17. Cheap contact solution.

18. MINI EGGS!!!

There. My customary lists are complete. There's quite a bit more that I could add to each, but this covers the basics, I think. Time for bed!

The Power of the Pup

The most common way for women to greet one another here is to kiss each other on both cheeks. Typically, you kiss the left cheek first, then the right, which I figured out after many an awkward moment. Occasionally, this will happen a couple of times. Left cheek, right cheek, then back to left and one more on the right. Just for good measure. Men also do this from time to time, to women who are not their wives nor their girlfriends and even to other men. For how homophobic the majority of Romania seems to be, it's a pleasant shock to see two young men pecking cheeks and firmly embracing. Pecks between men seem to be reserved for the closest friends, and only for special occasions. In Romanian, to kiss one's cheek is to "pup", which is pronounced, amusingly, "poop". "Te pup" means "I kiss you" and "ne pupam" means "we kiss each other". Te pup is most commonly said amongst close girlfriends when they are departing and I always feel a rush of glee when somebody says it to me. It's not a phrase typically used between basic acquaintances. You have to earn your pups, so whenever I hear a "te pup!" aimed my way, I know I've done something right. The best, though, is when you greet someone and get the actual pups. On your cheeks. Yes, it was very awkward at first, but now it's often the highlight of my day. And yesterday just happened to be the Happy New Year pup-fest at work. The best pup-fest of them all. I hadn't been to work in nearly a month due to vacations and my aversion to the place since my counterpart quit, but now that I'm back and needing things to do, I decided to go in. Every single lady and a few of the guys I ran into gave me a heart felt pup on each cheek and welcomed me back with open arms.

Some days are just really nice.