Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)