Okay, maybe we need a little more than love. Food, air, water... there are some other things that matter too.
But the longer I work with the kids in our IMPACT club, the longer I work at this office, the longer I live in this town full of lonely people with beautiful stories begging to be told, the more I think that this article gets it right.
Please read it. Really.
In case you don't have time, here's the important take-away. Love, which is not only the Christian virtue and greatest commandment, but also a way of speaking and behaving that communicates value and worth, really matters. In fact, in social science, studies indicate that "love" is an "independent variable that varies inversely with negative individual, social, and civic outcomes and directly with positive individual and pro-social, pro-civic outcomes: lower rates of abuse and neglect, higher rates of self-esteem and self-confidence and more positive educational results."
In other words, kids who know they are loved do better. In tons of ways.
So here's to loving our IMPACT kids -- even in these last few crunch weeks before Christmas, when we're all tired and cold and ready for a break.
We'll keep you posted. But for now, the reminder of Michael Gerson's article is sticking with me.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Advent.
We haven't written in a while, though I have composed a whole set of blog posts in my head while walking through Lupeni, of course... they just vanish when I try to write them down. So in lieu of some sort of profound reflections about our life in Romania right now, let me just post a few pictures. Of our Christmas decorations.
Now, in my defense, we have never gotten to decorate for Christmas before. This is our third Christmas as a married couple, but so far, nothin'. The first year we were packing up to move to Romania, and anything that couldn't fit into four large suitcases was already boxed and in our parents' basements... including decorations. I think I remember drawing a Christmas tree on a piece of paper and taping it to the wall that year. And sticking a few fallen pine boughs in a vase. But that was it. Other things -- packing, namely, but more importantly soaking in our last few weeks in the States with family and friends -- seemed more important. And they were.
Last year, we went back to the U.S. at the end of November, missing Advent in Romania entirely, returning on January 2, just in time to watch the rest of town take down their decorations. We got our fill of beautiful and festive staying with family and friends for the season in the States, but our own apartment stayed the same.
So this year, we're not leaving Romania until December 15, which means we're here for half of Advent. And I am determined to not miss it. So today, on this first Sunday of Advent, Jack and I put up our tiny assortment of, um, decorations. (Not much has changed from year 1, actually...). We have a Nativity set I received as a gift after doing an IMPACT training in Haiti. (We conveniently placed our star-shaped lantern overhead like a big red paper "star of Bethlehem...") We have a homemade Advent wreath with four candles from the supermarket taped to a plate, entwined with fallen pine branches, which I collected from the debris of a recent logging operation near the ropes course on Straja. The rest of the fallen pine branches have been stuffed into the dirt of a pot once holding lettuce plants (now dead), and form a makeshift Christmas tree. We had to use sticks to hold them up, and the decorations are limited to 1 string of lights, a piece of red string, a handmade paper star, and a few gaudy silver earrings. The earrings were brought to me a few weeks ago by the girls from girls' group -- they were part of a recent charitable shipment of used clothing from Iceland, which was given to members of our church -- who (oops!) don't wear earrings because it is frowned upon in this branch of Pentecostalism. I still wear earrings (though not usually to church) so the girls figured I might be able to use the collection, unwanted by the rest of the church ladies. The dangliest, gaudiest ones now adorn our tree.
So... yeah. It might not be classy, but it's cozy. And I love it.
Now, in my defense, we have never gotten to decorate for Christmas before. This is our third Christmas as a married couple, but so far, nothin'. The first year we were packing up to move to Romania, and anything that couldn't fit into four large suitcases was already boxed and in our parents' basements... including decorations. I think I remember drawing a Christmas tree on a piece of paper and taping it to the wall that year. And sticking a few fallen pine boughs in a vase. But that was it. Other things -- packing, namely, but more importantly soaking in our last few weeks in the States with family and friends -- seemed more important. And they were.
Last year, we went back to the U.S. at the end of November, missing Advent in Romania entirely, returning on January 2, just in time to watch the rest of town take down their decorations. We got our fill of beautiful and festive staying with family and friends for the season in the States, but our own apartment stayed the same.
So this year, we're not leaving Romania until December 15, which means we're here for half of Advent. And I am determined to not miss it. So today, on this first Sunday of Advent, Jack and I put up our tiny assortment of, um, decorations. (Not much has changed from year 1, actually...). We have a Nativity set I received as a gift after doing an IMPACT training in Haiti. (We conveniently placed our star-shaped lantern overhead like a big red paper "star of Bethlehem...") We have a homemade Advent wreath with four candles from the supermarket taped to a plate, entwined with fallen pine branches, which I collected from the debris of a recent logging operation near the ropes course on Straja. The rest of the fallen pine branches have been stuffed into the dirt of a pot once holding lettuce plants (now dead), and form a makeshift Christmas tree. We had to use sticks to hold them up, and the decorations are limited to 1 string of lights, a piece of red string, a handmade paper star, and a few gaudy silver earrings. The earrings were brought to me a few weeks ago by the girls from girls' group -- they were part of a recent charitable shipment of used clothing from Iceland, which was given to members of our church -- who (oops!) don't wear earrings because it is frowned upon in this branch of Pentecostalism. I still wear earrings (though not usually to church) so the girls figured I might be able to use the collection, unwanted by the rest of the church ladies. The dangliest, gaudiest ones now adorn our tree.
So... yeah. It might not be classy, but it's cozy. And I love it.
The Nativity under the guiding star. And lights in the avocado plant, yes.
The coolest Nativity ever -- with a coconut for a stable! Thanks, IMPACT Haiti.
Our Advent wreath, in front of our Christmas... tree... bush... thing.
We were interrupted from decorating by fireworks directly across the street, launched from the park there. (You can faintly see the smokestack and the church on the left of this picture.) It was a great surprise, presumably for tomorrow -- December 1 is Romania's equivalent of July 4.
And here is the lovely tree. Hee hee. :)
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
The results are in.
So, as many of you know from reading our slightly election-obsessed blog, the Romanian presidential run-off happened on Sunday. And on Monday morning, to our surprise, we woke to find the results: Klaus Iohannis the winner, Victor Ponta a gracious loser.
We were giddy.
Not because Iohannis is so great, really. As this article points out masterfully (seriously, read it!), his electoral platform is largely focused on continued economic growth and liberalization, trying to help Romania move more closely into the European Union and the capitalist systems that guide it, with few social programs addressing the poor -- of which Romania has many. He won't be a perfect president, and perhaps not even a very good one. But still, we were glad.
Why? Because it felt like even more than Iohannis, the Romanian people won this election. They won it through street protests and Facebook posts, through get-out-the-vote campaigns and public advocacy. Through hours of standing line for the thousands who live and vote abroad, and through long chilly public marches in big cities around the country. The voice of active citizens was raised in this election, voter turnout jumped to about 60%, and that is something great. Sure, it is less satisfying to be protesting simply in opposition of something known to be bad, without a great alternative to be for. And yet, it still is a victory, and one that makes me proud of the budding democracy we currently call home.
There are plenty of other undercurrents that darken this scene -- the divide between middle-class and educated Romanians and the poorer, less-educated parts of the country being the primary one (again, read this article!). Social media comments in this vein have been somewhat ugly lately, particularly one I recently saw directed at the Jiu Valley (where every city voted for Ponta, although pretty much the rest of Transylvania voted for Iohannis). The writer accused people in the Jiu Valley of being hicks, backwards and dumb, not deserving to be considered part of Transylvania. And that's ugly, and unfair, and stings a bit -- even though perhaps some of it has glimpses of truth, in the fact that education levels are generally lower here, and votes are more easily bought by a sack of potatoes when your family is hungry, as plenty of families here are. But it's also not true, judging by the thoughtfulness of our friends here, and by the other comments from people in Lupeni who reacted to an online photo of the mayor passing out bags of food in exchange for a Ponta vote with cries of "Shame!" and "We've voted out Ponta, now let's vote out Resmeriţa (Lupeni's mayor)!"
It's an ugly mix, and there are many factors at play, so none of this can be simplified to an easy right or wrong. But what is right, and what does make me smile, is to see Romanians voting, speaking up on behalf of what they believe, working together to bring about change. So now we pray for continued solidarity, for grace and real listening and cooperation, and for the hard work of democracy to be done well.
We were giddy.
Not because Iohannis is so great, really. As this article points out masterfully (seriously, read it!), his electoral platform is largely focused on continued economic growth and liberalization, trying to help Romania move more closely into the European Union and the capitalist systems that guide it, with few social programs addressing the poor -- of which Romania has many. He won't be a perfect president, and perhaps not even a very good one. But still, we were glad.
Why? Because it felt like even more than Iohannis, the Romanian people won this election. They won it through street protests and Facebook posts, through get-out-the-vote campaigns and public advocacy. Through hours of standing line for the thousands who live and vote abroad, and through long chilly public marches in big cities around the country. The voice of active citizens was raised in this election, voter turnout jumped to about 60%, and that is something great. Sure, it is less satisfying to be protesting simply in opposition of something known to be bad, without a great alternative to be for. And yet, it still is a victory, and one that makes me proud of the budding democracy we currently call home.
There are plenty of other undercurrents that darken this scene -- the divide between middle-class and educated Romanians and the poorer, less-educated parts of the country being the primary one (again, read this article!). Social media comments in this vein have been somewhat ugly lately, particularly one I recently saw directed at the Jiu Valley (where every city voted for Ponta, although pretty much the rest of Transylvania voted for Iohannis). The writer accused people in the Jiu Valley of being hicks, backwards and dumb, not deserving to be considered part of Transylvania. And that's ugly, and unfair, and stings a bit -- even though perhaps some of it has glimpses of truth, in the fact that education levels are generally lower here, and votes are more easily bought by a sack of potatoes when your family is hungry, as plenty of families here are. But it's also not true, judging by the thoughtfulness of our friends here, and by the other comments from people in Lupeni who reacted to an online photo of the mayor passing out bags of food in exchange for a Ponta vote with cries of "Shame!" and "We've voted out Ponta, now let's vote out Resmeriţa (Lupeni's mayor)!"
It's an ugly mix, and there are many factors at play, so none of this can be simplified to an easy right or wrong. But what is right, and what does make me smile, is to see Romanians voting, speaking up on behalf of what they believe, working together to bring about change. So now we pray for continued solidarity, for grace and real listening and cooperation, and for the hard work of democracy to be done well.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Election update.
If you’re sick of hearing about the HUGE CHANGES after the
US midterm elections, why not indulge your secret interest in a different
country’s elections? Say, Romania’s? You know you want to.
Anyways. The first round of elections is over for now! We
only had to look at candidates’ faces for a month before this election (sorry,
US residents). The Monday after the election, the posters came down—at least
the ones whose candidates didn’t make it to the RUNOFF.
So, on the 2nd, Victor Ponta won 40.44% of the
vote and Klaus Iohannis won 30.37%. The next four candidates won 5-3% each. In case
you didn’t read Kelly’s previous post, Ponta is the current prime minister and
the leader of the Social Democrats Party (PSD), which is the old Romanian Communist
Party. Iohannis is ethnically German and the current mayor of Sibiu, one of
Romania’s coolest cities (in our opinion). In Lupeni, Ponta won 55%, and Iohannis 15.43% (the mayor is in Ponta's party and they like to do these somber marches through the city at election time). In our county, Hunedoara, Ponta won 43.59% and Iohannis 31.64%. Hunedoara was the only county in Transylvania where Ponta won the vote.
What we hear about Ponta is that he buys votes (take a
picture of your ballot with a vote for him and his party sends you 50 lei),
plagiarized 85 pages of his doctoral thesis, and that his gang controls
governmental decisions through money and threats. One of our friends keeps
posting these sorts of incriminating things on facebook. Her latest was a letter written by some local Orthodox priests that was posted around cities
south of Bucharest asking voters to “vote with God in their hearts and
minds… for Victor Ponta, because only he supports the church, not the ‘lifta străină,’ Iohannis!” Apparently “lifta
străină” is a fairly negative
Orthodox term for someone of another faith. Kind of like saying, “Don’t vote
for that Lutheran dog who also happens to be a foreigner, Iohannis." Great
stuff.
What we’ve heard about Iohannis is that he’s German, so that's an interesting twist (Romania has a history of pretty good kings from Germany), but that
he owns 6 houses that he says he bought using money he made by tutoring (he’s
also a physics teacher), not by stealing government money. When asked why no
other teacher makes enough money to buy 6 houses, he apparently responded,
“Tough luck.” Uh-oh.
Most of our friends voted for Iohannis because they think he
represents a change in the status quo and that even if he’s not a perfect
candidate, he’s better than Ponta and the PSD. But they think Ponta will win.
He has the Orthodox church’s support, he has the poor voters’ support, and a
majority in Parliament. Iohannis has the young, educated vote and an optimistic
campaign (his slogans: “Yes, we can!” and “A Romania of things well done.”)
We were just in Timișoara, the university city where the revolution of 1989 began, and saw a demonstration against Ponta. It was a bit crazy to see a crowd standing in front of the opera house yelling "Jos Ponta, jos Ponta!" (down with Ponta), in the same place where even more people had yelled, "Jos Ceaușescu!" 25 years before. A guy asked me if I knew what was going on, and when I told him that I didn't really want Ponta to be president, he asked me to say it on his video camera. I don't have a vote here, but I guess I was given a voice.
The runoff is scheduled for this Sunday. We’ll see how it
goes. Apparently a lot of Romanians living in London and Paris had to stand in
line for hours to vote at the embassy. Many people speculate that the PSD made
it hard for the Romanian diaspora to vote since they’re sure they won’t vote
for them. Ponta’s response was that only a few hundred thousand voted anyways,
so it’s not a big deal.
As my mom and I were emailing about the election, she wrote,
“In some ways politics are not
much different here. Politicians "buy" votes with promises instead of
cash. Political parties try to make voting more difficult or restrictive with 'rules' to prevent voter fraud. All this can have both a good and a
bad side. Like most things in life... our greatest strength can also be our
greatest weakness.” Well said, mom.
Mainly, we’re praying for a free and fair election, that
even though many factors are being used to influence Romania to vote one way or
another, that Romania would vote for the candidate they think will govern them
well. I think that an underlying sentiment is something along the lines of, “We’ve
survived a lot of rotten governments, but we’re still Romanians, and we’re
still alive and kicking.”
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Election time.
Presidential elections in Romania are being held next week (November 2 to be precise), and I have to admit, I have more than a bit of curiosity about what's going to happen. There are election posters plastered everywhere in Lupeni (it seems a peculiar aesthetic to me, but often people will put up 20 of the exact same poster, side by side, creating a strange sort of wallpaper across their businesses' front windows... all the same blank stare and half-smile of some politician, over and over and over again). There are huge banners draped across the main street, sometimes two different ones fighting it out at opposing angles on intersections. (Unfortunately this includes a banner right in front of our apartment, featuring the notorious and slightly bulbous mayor of Lupeni endorsing the current prime minister, Victor Ponta, in his presidential bid. I have to say, it's not the most beautiful thing to see out our window first thing in the morning. Oh well, at least it's been foggy lately.)
The posters are interesting to me for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I'm not sure how much popular support they really represent. The other day I stopped in at a sandwich shop next to the office, where we've slowly been getting to know one of the employees. As I waited for my lunch, I asked her about the Ponta signs that were blocking the daylight, covering the entire shop window. "Are you voting for him?" I asked. "Oh no," she replied. "I'm not sure who I am voting for yet, but probably not Ponta." Quizzically I looked at the posters and then looked back at her. "So why do you have all the Ponta posters up then?" "Ahh... trebuie," she said -- trebuie being a word that basically means, "I had to."
I've told this story to a few Romanian friends and none of them looked surprised. Things like being pressured by the local mayor's political party to put up posters supporting that party's candidate, which strike me as pretty undemocratic and fraudulent, don't raise a whole lot of eyebrows among our friends. Not that they like it -- but it just seems pretty run-of-the-mill. Last night we had a bunch of friends over for dinner, and (instigator as I am, whoops) I asked about the election. In the course of the conversation all of them mentioned things like "poor people being bought off" (or not even bought off, just given one free meal!) in exchange for a vote in a particular direction. They weren't convinced that any of the candidates -- and there are a lot of them -- were above tactics like this, though they had tentative hopes about a few of the people running.
The one candidate who seems to be inspiring the most cautious optimism, at least among my friends here, is the current mayor of Sibiu, Klaus Iohannis. His motto is "Romania lucrului bine facut," or "the Romania of things well done," and I have to admit, I find his website and campaign promises more interesting than some of the others I have seen -- not that I have done as much research as I should, since I can't actually vote next week. (Lame excuse, I know.) Plenty of people have plenty of legitimate questions about Iohannis, so I'm certainly not trying to say he's perfect. But I find him promising, and curious, because in talking about him with friends, plenty of people have also said something along the lines of, "Well, he's German, so that's good."
I find that so incredibly interesting, and a little troubling. To make sense of it, let me explain something really quickly -- Romania historically has had a number of German kings, and many little pockets of Saxons, including in and around Sibiu -- people of German ancestry who brought much of their culture with them and lived in ethnic enclaves within Romania. Today they are mostly integrated, and you certainly hear more Romanian than German on the streets of Sibiu (though if you only spoke German you could probably get along okay there too). There are other similar ethnic groups in Romania, most notably the Hungarians -- but unlike the Hungarians, with whom there is still some tension, it seems that the Saxons have always been admired. The German villages in Romania are cute and tidy, and I have heard Romanian friends say many times, "Well, the Germans can keep their towns clean" -- as if it's something in the blood, or inherent to Germans -- and by association, apparently not inherent to Romanians. This sucks. I get it -- I understand where this disappointment and apathy comes from, or at least can guess at a few of its historical sources. But this sort of diminishing of their own history, culture, and national potential that so many Romanians demonstrate, and which appears in SO many forms (brain drain, adoption of Western holidays in place of Romanian ones, low voter turnout, civic disengagement, moving abroad)... it makes me so, so sad.
It makes me sad for two reasons. One, in the last year I have traveled to a lot of places (nine countries, to be exact, and that's not counting layovers). And not one of them -- including the United States -- is perfect. To believe that they are, or even that they are significantly better than here -- is a lie, and bound to disappoint. They may be fighting different battles, but each place has its own battles to fight.
And two, I love this place. I love living here. I am happy here. Sure, it has its hard moments, but life in Michigan had plenty of hard moments too. And so I don't like hearing people say that Romania sucks, and I feel a lot of weight about the decision to possibly leave here and go back to the US. I know that we cannot, by staying, necessarily ascribe value to this place. But I also wonder if leaving reinforces the message that life was better -- is better -- somewhere else.
I've wandered off the topic of elections by now, I suppose, but in my mind all of this is related. If Klaus Iohannis wins, I hope and pray he really claims his Romanian-ness and helps people love and believe in a Romania of things well done. If Victor Ponta or any of the other candidates win, I hope they can also help Romanians feel pride in their country, optimism about the future, and some measure of trust in their own agency.
That's my prayer for this election.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
IMPACT, round two.
We've started our second year (our first full year) of IMPACT this month, and it's already so much better than last time around.
We joined our IMPACT club as leaders in early March 2014. At the time, the club -- which had traditionally been a club for high school students -- was trying to recruit new members, as its numbers had dwindled. But somehow they got confused and ended up promoting their club to a class full of fifth graders, who then all showed up. We started helping as leaders just two weeks before the fifth graders arrived, and the leader who we had come to replace left shortly thereafter -- and so it was chaos, this crazy time of transition in which most of the older members left, exasperated at having their club overrun by a bunch of 12-year-olds. (And understandably so... some days we felt the same!)
Thankfully, three fabulous junior leaders stuck it out and stayed with us through the painful transition. The kids, hyper and dysfunctional as they were, did a project that we were really proud of. And by the time we took a break for the summer, I was almost sorry to see them go.
So in September we had our kickoff, after two months of quiet, and it was wild and fun and encouraging and discouraging, all wrapped into one. Now we've settled into the regular weekly rhythm of meetings -- every Wednesday from 7 to 9, some Mondays too when we need them -- and it's about the same. It's almost all the same kids, and we know them better, and they know us. I care about them more than I thought would be possible... it's just fun to be with them, and I am thankful for that.
And we're better leaders, too. We have fallen into a better rhythm of meeting ahead of time with our junior leaders, face-to-face instead of just planning over Facebook messages, and that works better and lets us feel more prepared. Last week the kids made maps of Lupeni representing all the things they thing are strengths and weaknesses of the community. Tonight they'll do skits acting out the things they think are problems as a way to try and analyze the problems' causes and effects. After that we'll choose one of the problems and build a service-learning project off of it -- we'll keep you posted on how it goes! And on Saturday we're heading up to the ropes course, with fingers crossed for good weather, to spend a day bonding as a group. Or that's what we're hoping for at least.
It just feels less frantic this year. We still make mistakes in Romanian, and Jack and I still debrief every meeting all the way home, including a lot of, "Um, let's not do that again." The kids still have attention spans of about 3 minutes before one of them punches another or interrupts or makes a rude joke. But we're making progress, slowly but surely, and I don't fear going anymore... in fact, I actually look forward to it.
So here's to IMPACT... and to us growing into it as we enter this second year.
We joined our IMPACT club as leaders in early March 2014. At the time, the club -- which had traditionally been a club for high school students -- was trying to recruit new members, as its numbers had dwindled. But somehow they got confused and ended up promoting their club to a class full of fifth graders, who then all showed up. We started helping as leaders just two weeks before the fifth graders arrived, and the leader who we had come to replace left shortly thereafter -- and so it was chaos, this crazy time of transition in which most of the older members left, exasperated at having their club overrun by a bunch of 12-year-olds. (And understandably so... some days we felt the same!)
Thankfully, three fabulous junior leaders stuck it out and stayed with us through the painful transition. The kids, hyper and dysfunctional as they were, did a project that we were really proud of. And by the time we took a break for the summer, I was almost sorry to see them go.
So in September we had our kickoff, after two months of quiet, and it was wild and fun and encouraging and discouraging, all wrapped into one. Now we've settled into the regular weekly rhythm of meetings -- every Wednesday from 7 to 9, some Mondays too when we need them -- and it's about the same. It's almost all the same kids, and we know them better, and they know us. I care about them more than I thought would be possible... it's just fun to be with them, and I am thankful for that.
And we're better leaders, too. We have fallen into a better rhythm of meeting ahead of time with our junior leaders, face-to-face instead of just planning over Facebook messages, and that works better and lets us feel more prepared. Last week the kids made maps of Lupeni representing all the things they thing are strengths and weaknesses of the community. Tonight they'll do skits acting out the things they think are problems as a way to try and analyze the problems' causes and effects. After that we'll choose one of the problems and build a service-learning project off of it -- we'll keep you posted on how it goes! And on Saturday we're heading up to the ropes course, with fingers crossed for good weather, to spend a day bonding as a group. Or that's what we're hoping for at least.
It just feels less frantic this year. We still make mistakes in Romanian, and Jack and I still debrief every meeting all the way home, including a lot of, "Um, let's not do that again." The kids still have attention spans of about 3 minutes before one of them punches another or interrupts or makes a rude joke. But we're making progress, slowly but surely, and I don't fear going anymore... in fact, I actually look forward to it.
So here's to IMPACT... and to us growing into it as we enter this second year.
A few pictures from the first meetings of the year:
The bistro.
Some of you might know about my secret dream of opening a local food cafe in Lupeni. I'm a little obsessed with the idea, though still in the dreamy-wouldn't-it-be-great way, not the getting-down-to-business way. We'll see if it progresses.
But! Those of you who have heard me ramble on about my love for little restaurants will understand my excitement about this new arrival in Lupeni: the Passage Bistro! (I know, the name is weird.) It's a small little restaurant that just opened last week in an old children's clothing store that had gone out of business, and it's about halfway from our apartment to the office. It's smoky and plays Kiss FM music videos too loudly for my taste, but I am still thrilled that it's here. (And only in small part because they serve fabulous eggplant salad and warm naan-like bread for an amazingly cheap price... though yes, that's part of it.)
The Bistro is exciting to me because it's a sign of hope. It's a sign of investment in a community that so often has people shaking their heads in doubt at its future prospects. I am not one to think that micro-business and economic growth are the magic tickets to a flourishing community -- but after living here for the last year and a half, I have become a firm subscriber to the idea that economic opportunities are an absolutely vital part of holistic and sustainable community growth. So many kids have told us that their goal is to move away someday, and when we press them on why, it almost always comes down to one thing: there aren't jobs here. (And it's boring. But I think those two usually go hand-in-hand.)
So the Bistro is, to me, this tiny, smoke-wreathed, noisy beacon of hope. The food isn't amazing, and it's not the coziest place I've ever seen, but it's a bit more modern than the other two restaurants in this town of 20,000 people. It brings the total options for a date night up to three. (Woohoo!) It, along with the Chill Lounge that opened last year (yeah, the names, I know) are these little enterprises that bring people together over food and drink and offer them somewhere fun, something to do, somewhere to work, somewhere to go.
The Bistro also seems to be sparking some good ol' capitalist competition, which is kind-of fun to observe. There are a few places in town that aren't restaurants but do serve delivery lunches -- the "meniu zilei" (menu of the day) brought to your door in a styrofoam takeout container. Usually they contain soup, four rolls (!), a hearty main course of meat and potatoes or some equivalent, a small side salad, and a little dessert. The price range is usually around 12 lei, or about $3.50. It's a popular thing at our office, and probably elsewhere too. The companies leave printed leaflets in apartment stairwells with the week's menu and a phone number, and you can call and have them deliver any time of day.
Well, recently the Bistro's meniu zilei flyer also arrived in our office stairwell, and soon there were flyers from other companies posted next to it. And then, next thing you know, they're both offering "economic portions" for those who don't want such an enormous lunch. (The current race for bargains is between Noemi, which offers a smaller lunch for 8 lei, including dessert, and the Bistro for 9.50 with no dessert. I am watching to see if the Bistro ups its game and cuts its price next week... or adds dessert...!) I'm not hoping for some sort of race to the bottom, and I can't imagine that the companies selling their lunches for such tiny sums are making a big enough profit margin to pay their employees fabulous salaries, so this is certainly not the most perfect case study. But regardless, it's fun to watch, and exciting to see these sparks of entrepreneurship in a town that so desperately need them.
Plus, it's a good reason to go out for lunch.
But! Those of you who have heard me ramble on about my love for little restaurants will understand my excitement about this new arrival in Lupeni: the Passage Bistro! (I know, the name is weird.) It's a small little restaurant that just opened last week in an old children's clothing store that had gone out of business, and it's about halfway from our apartment to the office. It's smoky and plays Kiss FM music videos too loudly for my taste, but I am still thrilled that it's here. (And only in small part because they serve fabulous eggplant salad and warm naan-like bread for an amazingly cheap price... though yes, that's part of it.)
The Bistro is exciting to me because it's a sign of hope. It's a sign of investment in a community that so often has people shaking their heads in doubt at its future prospects. I am not one to think that micro-business and economic growth are the magic tickets to a flourishing community -- but after living here for the last year and a half, I have become a firm subscriber to the idea that economic opportunities are an absolutely vital part of holistic and sustainable community growth. So many kids have told us that their goal is to move away someday, and when we press them on why, it almost always comes down to one thing: there aren't jobs here. (And it's boring. But I think those two usually go hand-in-hand.)
So the Bistro is, to me, this tiny, smoke-wreathed, noisy beacon of hope. The food isn't amazing, and it's not the coziest place I've ever seen, but it's a bit more modern than the other two restaurants in this town of 20,000 people. It brings the total options for a date night up to three. (Woohoo!) It, along with the Chill Lounge that opened last year (yeah, the names, I know) are these little enterprises that bring people together over food and drink and offer them somewhere fun, something to do, somewhere to work, somewhere to go.
The Bistro also seems to be sparking some good ol' capitalist competition, which is kind-of fun to observe. There are a few places in town that aren't restaurants but do serve delivery lunches -- the "meniu zilei" (menu of the day) brought to your door in a styrofoam takeout container. Usually they contain soup, four rolls (!), a hearty main course of meat and potatoes or some equivalent, a small side salad, and a little dessert. The price range is usually around 12 lei, or about $3.50. It's a popular thing at our office, and probably elsewhere too. The companies leave printed leaflets in apartment stairwells with the week's menu and a phone number, and you can call and have them deliver any time of day.
Well, recently the Bistro's meniu zilei flyer also arrived in our office stairwell, and soon there were flyers from other companies posted next to it. And then, next thing you know, they're both offering "economic portions" for those who don't want such an enormous lunch. (The current race for bargains is between Noemi, which offers a smaller lunch for 8 lei, including dessert, and the Bistro for 9.50 with no dessert. I am watching to see if the Bistro ups its game and cuts its price next week... or adds dessert...!) I'm not hoping for some sort of race to the bottom, and I can't imagine that the companies selling their lunches for such tiny sums are making a big enough profit margin to pay their employees fabulous salaries, so this is certainly not the most perfect case study. But regardless, it's fun to watch, and exciting to see these sparks of entrepreneurship in a town that so desperately need them.
Plus, it's a good reason to go out for lunch.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Re-entering Eastern Europe.
I had a long layover in the Rome airport today, on my way
home from an IMPACT international meeting in Armenia, and I noticed something
interesting there that I thought was worth writing about. I’m not usually prone to writing in dramatic
generalizations about the “air of oppression” or “sadness” of Eastern Europe,
though I’ve read plenty of books that speak rather poetically into that image
-- the plaintive scenes of Balkan Ghosts,
for instance, or other dramatic tomes that paint a melancholy picture of an
Eastern Europe where the people are morose, the restaurants bleak and empty,
and the air wreathed with cigarette smoke.
The Romania I live in is not like that -- although occasionally on gray
winter days, looking out at crumbling cement apartment buildings, I sense the
probable truth of those words at some point in history… and yes, every time we
arrive at the Bucuresti airport I find my eyes tearing up and my nose itching
as the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke starts up again, surprising me.
But today in the Rome airport I noticed something
interesting. And I’ll give it a thorough
disclaimer – I really doubt that the Italian officials are trying to
discriminate against the Eastern European travelers, or that there’s any deep
meaning behind this phenomenon other than the convenience of
geographically-grouped flights. But
still.
The Rome airport is laid out in two main buildings. The international building has terminal G,
where all the big overseas flights depart from (to North America, mostly, but
also Russia and Armenia and the “far” East).
It’s nicely arranged, with lots of shops and restaurants and bathrooms,
and large waiting areas with plenty of chairs in front of each gate.
The European building is much larger, connected to the
international building by a tram car.
There’s a long hallway full of restaurants and upscale shops and Italian
souvenir stands lining the way to terminals B, C, and D – all the EU Schengen
member-country flights depart from those gates.
Again, spacious and modern, with lots of restaurants and plenty of
seating.
And then there’s terminal H: the Eastern Europe (and
northern Africa) terminal. There are
eight different gates smooshed into one cavernous room, with hardly enough
chairs in the entire space to cover two full flights of passengers – much less
the eight flights who are all waiting there at once. You descend a set of stairs to enter the
terminal, and there is the throng below you – hundreds of people, almost all on
their feet, standing in snaking lines all over this room, waiting to board
flights to Kiev and Split and Bucuresti and Algiers. The air conditioning isn’t strong enough in
this room to keep it as cool as the rest of the airport, and it’s sticky and
faintly smelly, like any train compartment or bus station… except that it’s an
airport, the rest of which is cool and climate-controlled and light. There is one kiosk selling sandwiches, and a
few vending machines, but no tables for sitting at to eat. It’s definitely a marked difference from the
rest of the lovely Rome airport.
Who knows why it’s like this… maybe it’s just the last
wing of the airport to be renovated, or flights tend to be smaller and have
fewer passengers, or maybe nobody’s really noticed. But it just struck me as interesting, this
dichotomy. I often forget about the
“second class citizens” sensation that many Eastern European writers have
written about (Slavenka Drakulic, for one notable example) – but if this is an
example of that, it’s a pretty stark one.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Corn for the doves (or, our neighbor's big secret).
Many of you who have read this blog before have heard mention of our rather-unfriendly neighbors across the hall. It's a man and a woman and 1.5 children (I say 1.5 because I am only sure about one of them, a slightly-awkward teenage boy who parks his bike in front of our door. Jack says there's also a little girl, but I've never seen her, so for now we'll count her as half). I have griped many a time about the trash they leave all over the landing, the mysterious corn kernels scattered across the landing and on our doorstep, their enormous pile of wood that smells like pickles, and the general standoffish-ness I'd felt from them -- probably making many of you crazy with my complaints.
But in the last few months, we've been making progress! After a particularly exasperating series of rotting watermelon rinds dripping down the stairs and boxes stacked next to our door, I finally worked up the courage to ask the man if he could store his, ahem, junk, somewhere else. He was really nice about it, and moved it a few days later! (He even asked me why I hadn't asked earlier... same thing Jack had been asking me for months...) But anyway, it was a really nice step in the right direction, and I felt respected, even if things weren't particularly friendly.
Then they had a huge flood. Our water gets turned off periodically, and apparently one day they had left a faucet open while the water was off, and then left the house. By the time the neighbor on the ground floor saw the dripping, the water had been running for a LONG TIME -- we live on the fifth floor, and when I got home from work that evening, water was still running out the entrance to our building, and cascading down the stairs. Our neighbors had dragged their enormous, sodden rug out to the landing between our apartments and left it hanging there for a few days, dripping steadily down to the floors below and making the entire stairway smell strongly of wet dog. It was gross, but when he knocked on the door and asked if we minded, we said no -- what else could he do? And at least he had the courtesy to ask.
So these steps had been taken, and I had been feeling optimistic, when suddenly a few days ago, we had a huge surprise.
We were coming home from work when we saw our neighbor on the landing with a giant sack full of corn and wheat. Curious, Jack asked him what it was for. "For the doves and pigeons," he replied, as he pulled out the ladder leading to the roof. "I feed them. There are probably about 30 of them up there. Some of them are all white; it's rare!" It was the most I'd ever heard him say, and Jack and I looked at each other, astonished, as he climbed the ladder and disappeared above. We waited until we got into our apartment to laugh at this astonishing turn of events, and then two minutes later we heard a knock on the door. There stood our neighbor, a white dove clutched in both hands. "Look, here are some of the white ones," he explained, holding the flapping birds out to us. "I'm just about to go let them go from my window. Or wait, do you want to let them go?" He thrust the birds in our direction, and we hesitatingly grabbed them. "Just go let them fly off your balcony," he said, and so we did -- rushing through the bedroom to the balcony as the doves squirmed in our hands, a blur of feathers and a gush of air as they flapped to freedom, leaving white feathers on the balcony and bedroom floor as proof they were there. By the time we returned to the door, laughing and astonished, our neighbor was gone.
But in the last few months, we've been making progress! After a particularly exasperating series of rotting watermelon rinds dripping down the stairs and boxes stacked next to our door, I finally worked up the courage to ask the man if he could store his, ahem, junk, somewhere else. He was really nice about it, and moved it a few days later! (He even asked me why I hadn't asked earlier... same thing Jack had been asking me for months...) But anyway, it was a really nice step in the right direction, and I felt respected, even if things weren't particularly friendly.
Then they had a huge flood. Our water gets turned off periodically, and apparently one day they had left a faucet open while the water was off, and then left the house. By the time the neighbor on the ground floor saw the dripping, the water had been running for a LONG TIME -- we live on the fifth floor, and when I got home from work that evening, water was still running out the entrance to our building, and cascading down the stairs. Our neighbors had dragged their enormous, sodden rug out to the landing between our apartments and left it hanging there for a few days, dripping steadily down to the floors below and making the entire stairway smell strongly of wet dog. It was gross, but when he knocked on the door and asked if we minded, we said no -- what else could he do? And at least he had the courtesy to ask.
So these steps had been taken, and I had been feeling optimistic, when suddenly a few days ago, we had a huge surprise.
We were coming home from work when we saw our neighbor on the landing with a giant sack full of corn and wheat. Curious, Jack asked him what it was for. "For the doves and pigeons," he replied, as he pulled out the ladder leading to the roof. "I feed them. There are probably about 30 of them up there. Some of them are all white; it's rare!" It was the most I'd ever heard him say, and Jack and I looked at each other, astonished, as he climbed the ladder and disappeared above. We waited until we got into our apartment to laugh at this astonishing turn of events, and then two minutes later we heard a knock on the door. There stood our neighbor, a white dove clutched in both hands. "Look, here are some of the white ones," he explained, holding the flapping birds out to us. "I'm just about to go let them go from my window. Or wait, do you want to let them go?" He thrust the birds in our direction, and we hesitatingly grabbed them. "Just go let them fly off your balcony," he said, and so we did -- rushing through the bedroom to the balcony as the doves squirmed in our hands, a blur of feathers and a gush of air as they flapped to freedom, leaving white feathers on the balcony and bedroom floor as proof they were there. By the time we returned to the door, laughing and astonished, our neighbor was gone.
Running. On a mountain. In a storm. At night.
For sure one of the less responsible decisions we've made in the past few years, but it all ended well, thank God.
Back in May, Kelly and I signed up to run our first race in Romania. If it had just been a 5k on the road, I for sure wouldn't be writing about it on the blog, but it was a 15k in the mountains that starts at 10pm. The "Iorgovanu Night Run." The only rule for the race is that you bring a headlamp. A bit more exciting than usual.
As soon as we signed up we knew we needed to really begin training RIGHT THEN because we'd been on part of the race's course before and it's rough terrain. I got the chance to hike the route with some kids from our church a few weeks before the race. You begin with 3k going slightly downhill on a road, after which you take a left into the woods and the uphill begins. It gradually gets steeper and steeper for the next 3k until you reach a shepherd's hut with a very friendly water spigot. There's still 1.5k of uphill after the hut (in which you climb about 1000 ft), until you finally arrive at Drăgșanu Plateau and it's flat for a kilometer. The 2k after that is where it begins to get really tricky--it's an uneven, rocky area of unclearly marked trail that goes over around 2 small peaks, the higher one being 1988m tall (you start at 1100m above sea level). After these peaks, you arrive at Piatra Iorgovanului (Iorgovanu's Rock), the race's namesake. As the legend goes, Iovan Iorgovanu was a Robin Hood sort of character in this area who slashed the rock into jagged valleys to create a better setting in which to fight a monster that had been terrorizing the shepherds. After the rock, it's 4k down to the finish line in which you have to descend all 3000ft you climbed at the beginning, the first half being through sharp rocks and the second half on a delightfully soft forest trail.
The 15k hike took us about 7 1/2 hours to complete with the kids and a thunderstorm got pretty close to us while we were in the open space around the peaks. Like, there was lightning striking the other side of the mountains from where we were. Kelly had said that she was okay with me not sticking with her the whole time, but when we were descending, I got scared that something bad would happen while we were running down a mountain over sharp, possibly wet and slippery rocks at night. I told the kids later that day that I had been feeling good about this race until this hike when I remembered that I need to respect the mountain and be a little afraid of it.
Two weeks before the race, Kelly and I did a test hike, and we had a GREAT time. When it's not pouring and thundering, the trail is comfortably challenging and the area is beautiful. Sometimes you can see mountain goats running around on the rocks, and there's usually a herd of horses running around somewhere. We did the route in 4 1/2 hours walking, which made us feel better about the race's 5 hour time limit. Kelly told me I could run as fast as I wanted, though there's a part on the descent that takes you about 10ft away from a 100ft drop down. She told me to slow down there. I said yes.
Now, I don't want to brag, but Kelly and I ran really smart. I remember from high school cross country races everyone running the first few hundred meters with extra bravado and me passing lots of them in the next hundred meters. At the Iorgovanu Night Run, apparently the thing is to run fast while you're on the road. I'm pretty sure that when I looked behind me after 10 minutes I saw the last people in the race and almost everyone else was ahead of us. We were confused and wondering if we'd gotten ourselves into really tough competition, but we knew that if we had to do that whole route, we weren't going to run any faster for the moment.
Once we turned into the woods, Kelly let me go as fast as I wanted. I gave her a kiss and ran. And passed most of the people in the race somehow. It got to the point where it was impossible to run the whole time, so we'd go back and forth from walking up the steep parts and then running the flat parts. And then there were no more flat parts. And then it kept getting steeper. I was behind a guy with hiking poles wearing a red long sleeve and black tights (that's how I identified people since if you try to look someone in the face you blind them).
We arrived to the shepherd's hut 46 minutes in. I was starting to feel my shoes rubbing on my heels, but I was quickly distracted by the water, chocolate, peaches, and mountain blueberries. And then it started to rain. The guy I was running with said something akin to "Screw it" and we both started going again. Definitely not running. When the trail was gentle enough to run on, we would, but it was mostly steep and rocky. Fortunately, it stopped raining. Our friend and college, Ile, was at the checkpoint at the Drăgșanu Plateau, so I yelled to her as I neared the flatness. Everyone yelled back. I got to them and pulled out my band-aids to put on my blisters. Ile gave me more band-aids and asked what I'd done with Kelly. She was pretty sure Kelly was going to be first out of the women.
I left Ile and began to tackle the plateau. It's a wide, grassy area between a few gentle peaks with a shepherd's hut to the right. During daytime the donkeys usually bray at you. They must have been sleeping this time. We were going along great until we entered the cloud that was covering the next 5k of the course. By this point, another guy with hiking sticks, a red long sleeve and black tights had joined us, so we worked together to find the trail. Whenever one of us saw the next strip of reflective tape, we'd call out and run on. There were a few times that we had to split up and look for it, and then hurry to catch up to the guy who'd found it. We were so willing to not lose each other in the fog, but we weren't really waiting around for each other either. Sometimes we could see the painted trail markers, but the trail wasn't obvious in this section at all, and there were plenty of rocks to be careful around. I was tense, but it all went by quickly since my attention was on not falling over or getting lost.
Once we got onto the trail that leads up to Piatra Iorgovanului, I felt great, and awful. I finally knew where I was and was sure that I wouldn't get lost, but I began to realize how tired my body actually was. Every step I had to take up made the insides of my thighs start to cramp up and it made my shoes rub on my blistered heels even more. They guys at the checkpoint were yelling pretty loudly for us to keep going, so I only had a little bit of water and blueberries before I began the descent.
There were two guys in front of me (my red-shirted friends had pulled away and fallen back) who were going a little slower than I wanted, but I figured I shouldn't rush. It had begun to rain again, and there are so many rocks to go over on the way down. I remembered Kelly's request about the edge. I was grabbing on to the scrub bushes to stay upright as we scrambled down. At one point I heard someone or something behind me, so I stopped to look, and there was a big sheep dog patiently following us down. Welcome to Retezat National Park. I passed the guys and tried to be even more careful. I was getting worried because it seemed like the rain was part of a thunderstorm that was getting closer to me from behind, which meant that it had probably already hit the people who were on the flat part. The lightning was bright enough to light up the area like daytime and the rain was making me worry that my headlamp would go out.
Every time that I had to lift my leg to run over a rock, it was in serious danger of cramping. I've never been in a situation where my body hurt so much but my breathing was so steady. Also, I've never been in a situation where running faster would actually help me escape a real danger. The lightening didn't make me instinctively duck anymore once I entered the woods, but it was steadily raining harder and harder. The last bit of the trail down to the field across from the finish line might actually be the steepest part of the whole course, but finally, I was running flat again. All I had to do was cross a creek and the road, and I was done. The torches had all been doused by the rain, but there were plenty of people cheering me on as I finished. This is me giving five to Laurențiu while he's asking me if I'm alright. I was.
The only thing I knew after I got my MEDAL (!) was that I needed to eat. Bananas. Blueberries. Apples. Peaches. Purple juice that probably had extra electrolytes or something useful to make up for the weird taste. Then all I knew was that I needed to take off my shoes. I got back to our tent and it started pouring. I got into rain gear and flip flops and limped back to the finish line to wait for Kelly.
So now it's my turn... this is Kelly writing now. At the risk of this becoming the Longest Blog Post Ever, we figured we might as well both tell our stories of Iorgovanu in one fell swoop. As Jack said, he finished the run in spectacular fashion, crossing the finish line in 8th place in only a little over two hours. I, on the other hand, was still somewhere up the mountain... and the rain was beginning to fall harder.
Jack and I had started the race together, and when we entered the woods and began climbing, he pulled away. Within the first few miles of the climb I had also passed many of the participants, and when we reached the shepherd's hut someone saw me and announced, "Prima domnișoara!" (First girl!) I was a little astonished, and knew that I hadn't left the other women far behind, so with a small group of other runners (a middle-aged guy from Lupeni and a guy my age with a reflective stripe on the back of both ankles... that was the only way I had of identifying him), we entered the last -- and hardest -- stage of the uphill. When we got to the checkpoint where Jack had needed bandaids, our friend Ile threw some to me too. Again the cry of "priiiiimaaa domnișooooara!" came from the group of Salvamont, which made me smile and laugh in surprise -- like, all I wanted was to finish this race without falling off a cliff or breaking an ankle. (Those of you who know me well may know that I have the tendency to trip while running...) By this time it had started to rain, and with the victory of finishing the hardest half of the race behind me, I couldn't help but grin. "I'm doing it!" I thought, as lightning lit up the sky above me. "I'm a mountain runner! (What a surprise!) This is so sweet!"
The trail levels out, sort-of, and winds its way confusingly around and across a series of peaks and rocky terrain before you begin the steep descent of the last 3-4 kilometers, and that's where the fog rolled in. Though the trail had been marked with reflective tape every 20 meters or so, there came a point where I was running alone and couldn't see far enough for my headlamp to catch the next flag. At one point I got so disoriented that I spent a good 10 minutes searching for the next flag, moving back and forth from the last known point in various directions, searching, eventually giving up and waiting for other runners to catch up so I wouldn't be alone. I don't know a whole lot about mountain survival situations (I know now that it's next on my to-do list of things to learn), but I did know that I needed to not panic, not waste too much energy or get too cold, and not leave the trail. Eventually a group came by and picked me up, but they weren't very good at sticking together... so it helped a little bit to be with other people, but not much, as they were all yelling in Romanian which was muffled by the wind, and none of us knew where the trail had disappeared to. As the wind and rain picked up, and the lightning and thunder got closer and closer, I started to realize that this competition was quickly progressing into something more dangerous than I had hoped for. With the race going so well and being the "prima domnișoara" well past the halfway point, I had started to get competitive, feeling excited about my chance to run well, even win for the women! But after 30 minutes passed of stop-start running and pausing, shivering and stumbling, blind wandering in sodden clothes across a wind-swept mountain peak, I decided that the competition phase of this event was over for me. It was just time to get down the mountain.
Eventually a ponytailed guy from Lupeni named Ionut offered me one of his hiking poles to keep me from blowing over in the wind (it had happened... plus, my loose shoelace had caught on a root and tripped me flat on my face... so I think he took pity on me). Then finally, the group we were with found the trail (and figured out which way we needed to take it, after heading the wrong direction for at least 5 minutes). That group splintered as we reached Iorgovanu itself, some of us stopping for much-needed energy-replacing snacks and others booking it off to the descent. (In a moment of wifely panic, I paused to ask the organizer if Jack's bib number had come through yet -- and as I looked over his shoulder at the rain-soaked list, I saw he'd come through in eighth!) Energized, Ionut and I took off in our sopping wet shoes, squelching our way down the mountain, wincing as hail hit our necks. The lightning was so bright that it would illuminate the entire mountain, suddenly exposing exactly where we were on the trail -- a part I was more familiar with after Jack and my day hike a few weeks earlier. Although we couldn't help but duck at the lightning, and could hardly hear each other for the pounding of the wind and the rain, I did hear Ionut offer a joke as he waited for me to climb over a downed tree -- "Well, at least if we die out here, we won't die alone!" Somehow it was comforting, maybe since it didn't seem like such an impossibility anymore.
The last half mile of the race was like a dream. The trail through the woods was so slick with mud that we were half-running, half-sliding down the steep incline, and when it finally emptied us out into the field at Campusel, I tripped and fell flat in my face in the grass (yes, again), unable to stop my momentum and adjust to the sudden no-more-downhill. But I bounced back up and sprinted off, through the Jiu River which was now a gushing torrent from the heavy rain, and crossed the road to finish, grinning. The rain hadn't stopped, and it was windy and cold, so most of the spectators were huddled in cars or tents rather than cheering at the finish line -- but I heard Jack's shout of "yeah, Kelly!" and then it was over.
In the end, I finished in a little over three hours. In the confusion of the fog and storm atop the mountain, I got passed by many groups (my lesson learned is to find a race buddy who knows the trail, and stick with them no matter what!), so I didn't place or finish in the time I could have. But as we slept that night in our tent in Campusel, listening to the wind howl and the rain pour, I couldn't help but smile, even as my sore muscles made me wince. And in the morning after, when we drove back to Lupeni and saw the many trees down across the road, I couldn't help but feel anything but grateful -- grateful for the fun experience, grateful that we made it, and grateful for the story.
And already excited for next year.
Back in May, Kelly and I signed up to run our first race in Romania. If it had just been a 5k on the road, I for sure wouldn't be writing about it on the blog, but it was a 15k in the mountains that starts at 10pm. The "Iorgovanu Night Run." The only rule for the race is that you bring a headlamp. A bit more exciting than usual.
As soon as we signed up we knew we needed to really begin training RIGHT THEN because we'd been on part of the race's course before and it's rough terrain. I got the chance to hike the route with some kids from our church a few weeks before the race. You begin with 3k going slightly downhill on a road, after which you take a left into the woods and the uphill begins. It gradually gets steeper and steeper for the next 3k until you reach a shepherd's hut with a very friendly water spigot. There's still 1.5k of uphill after the hut (in which you climb about 1000 ft), until you finally arrive at Drăgșanu Plateau and it's flat for a kilometer. The 2k after that is where it begins to get really tricky--it's an uneven, rocky area of unclearly marked trail that goes over around 2 small peaks, the higher one being 1988m tall (you start at 1100m above sea level). After these peaks, you arrive at Piatra Iorgovanului (Iorgovanu's Rock), the race's namesake. As the legend goes, Iovan Iorgovanu was a Robin Hood sort of character in this area who slashed the rock into jagged valleys to create a better setting in which to fight a monster that had been terrorizing the shepherds. After the rock, it's 4k down to the finish line in which you have to descend all 3000ft you climbed at the beginning, the first half being through sharp rocks and the second half on a delightfully soft forest trail.
Atop Piatra Iorgovanului during our test hike...
The 15k hike took us about 7 1/2 hours to complete with the kids and a thunderstorm got pretty close to us while we were in the open space around the peaks. Like, there was lightning striking the other side of the mountains from where we were. Kelly had said that she was okay with me not sticking with her the whole time, but when we were descending, I got scared that something bad would happen while we were running down a mountain over sharp, possibly wet and slippery rocks at night. I told the kids later that day that I had been feeling good about this race until this hike when I remembered that I need to respect the mountain and be a little afraid of it.
Two weeks before the race, Kelly and I did a test hike, and we had a GREAT time. When it's not pouring and thundering, the trail is comfortably challenging and the area is beautiful. Sometimes you can see mountain goats running around on the rocks, and there's usually a herd of horses running around somewhere. We did the route in 4 1/2 hours walking, which made us feel better about the race's 5 hour time limit. Kelly told me I could run as fast as I wanted, though there's a part on the descent that takes you about 10ft away from a 100ft drop down. She told me to slow down there. I said yes.
The day of the race, we made sure to take naps, and headed to the park at 7. We would camp by a lodge in Câmpușel (the little field) that night after running. We set up the tent and then went to the technical meeting at 9. The race director, Laurențiu, went through the course with us on a map and showed us where all the food and other control points would be. The course was marked by reflective tape placed every 20m along the trail and by big, pulsing lights from runways at all the peaks and control points. He told us to be careful, use common sense, and have a great time.
At 9:50, we were at the start line, marked by a row of torches. And then the music got really loud. And then we were counting down from zece to unu. And then we ran.
The start and finish are flanked by torches...
Now, I don't want to brag, but Kelly and I ran really smart. I remember from high school cross country races everyone running the first few hundred meters with extra bravado and me passing lots of them in the next hundred meters. At the Iorgovanu Night Run, apparently the thing is to run fast while you're on the road. I'm pretty sure that when I looked behind me after 10 minutes I saw the last people in the race and almost everyone else was ahead of us. We were confused and wondering if we'd gotten ourselves into really tough competition, but we knew that if we had to do that whole route, we weren't going to run any faster for the moment.
Once we turned into the woods, Kelly let me go as fast as I wanted. I gave her a kiss and ran. And passed most of the people in the race somehow. It got to the point where it was impossible to run the whole time, so we'd go back and forth from walking up the steep parts and then running the flat parts. And then there were no more flat parts. And then it kept getting steeper. I was behind a guy with hiking poles wearing a red long sleeve and black tights (that's how I identified people since if you try to look someone in the face you blind them).
We arrived to the shepherd's hut 46 minutes in. I was starting to feel my shoes rubbing on my heels, but I was quickly distracted by the water, chocolate, peaches, and mountain blueberries. And then it started to rain. The guy I was running with said something akin to "Screw it" and we both started going again. Definitely not running. When the trail was gentle enough to run on, we would, but it was mostly steep and rocky. Fortunately, it stopped raining. Our friend and college, Ile, was at the checkpoint at the Drăgșanu Plateau, so I yelled to her as I neared the flatness. Everyone yelled back. I got to them and pulled out my band-aids to put on my blisters. Ile gave me more band-aids and asked what I'd done with Kelly. She was pretty sure Kelly was going to be first out of the women.
I left Ile and began to tackle the plateau. It's a wide, grassy area between a few gentle peaks with a shepherd's hut to the right. During daytime the donkeys usually bray at you. They must have been sleeping this time. We were going along great until we entered the cloud that was covering the next 5k of the course. By this point, another guy with hiking sticks, a red long sleeve and black tights had joined us, so we worked together to find the trail. Whenever one of us saw the next strip of reflective tape, we'd call out and run on. There were a few times that we had to split up and look for it, and then hurry to catch up to the guy who'd found it. We were so willing to not lose each other in the fog, but we weren't really waiting around for each other either. Sometimes we could see the painted trail markers, but the trail wasn't obvious in this section at all, and there were plenty of rocks to be careful around. I was tense, but it all went by quickly since my attention was on not falling over or getting lost.
Once we got onto the trail that leads up to Piatra Iorgovanului, I felt great, and awful. I finally knew where I was and was sure that I wouldn't get lost, but I began to realize how tired my body actually was. Every step I had to take up made the insides of my thighs start to cramp up and it made my shoes rub on my blistered heels even more. They guys at the checkpoint were yelling pretty loudly for us to keep going, so I only had a little bit of water and blueberries before I began the descent.
There were two guys in front of me (my red-shirted friends had pulled away and fallen back) who were going a little slower than I wanted, but I figured I shouldn't rush. It had begun to rain again, and there are so many rocks to go over on the way down. I remembered Kelly's request about the edge. I was grabbing on to the scrub bushes to stay upright as we scrambled down. At one point I heard someone or something behind me, so I stopped to look, and there was a big sheep dog patiently following us down. Welcome to Retezat National Park. I passed the guys and tried to be even more careful. I was getting worried because it seemed like the rain was part of a thunderstorm that was getting closer to me from behind, which meant that it had probably already hit the people who were on the flat part. The lightning was bright enough to light up the area like daytime and the rain was making me worry that my headlamp would go out.
Every time that I had to lift my leg to run over a rock, it was in serious danger of cramping. I've never been in a situation where my body hurt so much but my breathing was so steady. Also, I've never been in a situation where running faster would actually help me escape a real danger. The lightening didn't make me instinctively duck anymore once I entered the woods, but it was steadily raining harder and harder. The last bit of the trail down to the field across from the finish line might actually be the steepest part of the whole course, but finally, I was running flat again. All I had to do was cross a creek and the road, and I was done. The torches had all been doused by the rain, but there were plenty of people cheering me on as I finished. This is me giving five to Laurențiu while he's asking me if I'm alright. I was.
Done done done.
The only thing I knew after I got my MEDAL (!) was that I needed to eat. Bananas. Blueberries. Apples. Peaches. Purple juice that probably had extra electrolytes or something useful to make up for the weird taste. Then all I knew was that I needed to take off my shoes. I got back to our tent and it started pouring. I got into rain gear and flip flops and limped back to the finish line to wait for Kelly.
So now it's my turn... this is Kelly writing now. At the risk of this becoming the Longest Blog Post Ever, we figured we might as well both tell our stories of Iorgovanu in one fell swoop. As Jack said, he finished the run in spectacular fashion, crossing the finish line in 8th place in only a little over two hours. I, on the other hand, was still somewhere up the mountain... and the rain was beginning to fall harder.
Jack and I had started the race together, and when we entered the woods and began climbing, he pulled away. Within the first few miles of the climb I had also passed many of the participants, and when we reached the shepherd's hut someone saw me and announced, "Prima domnișoara!" (First girl!) I was a little astonished, and knew that I hadn't left the other women far behind, so with a small group of other runners (a middle-aged guy from Lupeni and a guy my age with a reflective stripe on the back of both ankles... that was the only way I had of identifying him), we entered the last -- and hardest -- stage of the uphill. When we got to the checkpoint where Jack had needed bandaids, our friend Ile threw some to me too. Again the cry of "priiiiimaaa domnișooooara!" came from the group of Salvamont, which made me smile and laugh in surprise -- like, all I wanted was to finish this race without falling off a cliff or breaking an ankle. (Those of you who know me well may know that I have the tendency to trip while running...) By this time it had started to rain, and with the victory of finishing the hardest half of the race behind me, I couldn't help but grin. "I'm doing it!" I thought, as lightning lit up the sky above me. "I'm a mountain runner! (What a surprise!) This is so sweet!"
The trail levels out, sort-of, and winds its way confusingly around and across a series of peaks and rocky terrain before you begin the steep descent of the last 3-4 kilometers, and that's where the fog rolled in. Though the trail had been marked with reflective tape every 20 meters or so, there came a point where I was running alone and couldn't see far enough for my headlamp to catch the next flag. At one point I got so disoriented that I spent a good 10 minutes searching for the next flag, moving back and forth from the last known point in various directions, searching, eventually giving up and waiting for other runners to catch up so I wouldn't be alone. I don't know a whole lot about mountain survival situations (I know now that it's next on my to-do list of things to learn), but I did know that I needed to not panic, not waste too much energy or get too cold, and not leave the trail. Eventually a group came by and picked me up, but they weren't very good at sticking together... so it helped a little bit to be with other people, but not much, as they were all yelling in Romanian which was muffled by the wind, and none of us knew where the trail had disappeared to. As the wind and rain picked up, and the lightning and thunder got closer and closer, I started to realize that this competition was quickly progressing into something more dangerous than I had hoped for. With the race going so well and being the "prima domnișoara" well past the halfway point, I had started to get competitive, feeling excited about my chance to run well, even win for the women! But after 30 minutes passed of stop-start running and pausing, shivering and stumbling, blind wandering in sodden clothes across a wind-swept mountain peak, I decided that the competition phase of this event was over for me. It was just time to get down the mountain.
Eventually a ponytailed guy from Lupeni named Ionut offered me one of his hiking poles to keep me from blowing over in the wind (it had happened... plus, my loose shoelace had caught on a root and tripped me flat on my face... so I think he took pity on me). Then finally, the group we were with found the trail (and figured out which way we needed to take it, after heading the wrong direction for at least 5 minutes). That group splintered as we reached Iorgovanu itself, some of us stopping for much-needed energy-replacing snacks and others booking it off to the descent. (In a moment of wifely panic, I paused to ask the organizer if Jack's bib number had come through yet -- and as I looked over his shoulder at the rain-soaked list, I saw he'd come through in eighth!) Energized, Ionut and I took off in our sopping wet shoes, squelching our way down the mountain, wincing as hail hit our necks. The lightning was so bright that it would illuminate the entire mountain, suddenly exposing exactly where we were on the trail -- a part I was more familiar with after Jack and my day hike a few weeks earlier. Although we couldn't help but duck at the lightning, and could hardly hear each other for the pounding of the wind and the rain, I did hear Ionut offer a joke as he waited for me to climb over a downed tree -- "Well, at least if we die out here, we won't die alone!" Somehow it was comforting, maybe since it didn't seem like such an impossibility anymore.
The last half mile of the race was like a dream. The trail through the woods was so slick with mud that we were half-running, half-sliding down the steep incline, and when it finally emptied us out into the field at Campusel, I tripped and fell flat in my face in the grass (yes, again), unable to stop my momentum and adjust to the sudden no-more-downhill. But I bounced back up and sprinted off, through the Jiu River which was now a gushing torrent from the heavy rain, and crossed the road to finish, grinning. The rain hadn't stopped, and it was windy and cold, so most of the spectators were huddled in cars or tents rather than cheering at the finish line -- but I heard Jack's shout of "yeah, Kelly!" and then it was over.
In the end, I finished in a little over three hours. In the confusion of the fog and storm atop the mountain, I got passed by many groups (my lesson learned is to find a race buddy who knows the trail, and stick with them no matter what!), so I didn't place or finish in the time I could have. But as we slept that night in our tent in Campusel, listening to the wind howl and the rain pour, I couldn't help but smile, even as my sore muscles made me wince. And in the morning after, when we drove back to Lupeni and saw the many trees down across the road, I couldn't help but feel anything but grateful -- grateful for the fun experience, grateful that we made it, and grateful for the story.
And already excited for next year.
Monday, September 1, 2014
The girls.
A few weeks ago, my friends Janelle and Alina and I started meeting with a group of teenage girls from our church. I knew many of them pretty well already, as they were some of our first friends in the congregation, and over the last year and a half we've slowly gotten to know more of each other's stories. But not very deeply, really -- conversations and hugs once a week on Sunday evenings hardly constitute a real, living relationship. So I was excited when we finally got our act together and began meeting a month ago.
It works like this: on Monday, Janelle and I head to Alina's house, a small cozy place on the far edge of Lupeni. She serves us cake and coffee, even though it's usually after 7pm, and we talk together about what we liked from the book's current chapter, and plan out what questions we want to ask the girls. At least, that's what we talk about for 15 minutes or so. The rest of the time we spend just talking about our lives -- sick family members, new recipes we love, worries about money, what our husbands are doing, things we have been pondering from church. I am coming to really cherish these times, particularly as I get to know Alina better. It's a strange thing, really -- we're so incredibly different -- she born and raised in Lupeni, married at 17, a stay-at-home-mom who came to take her faith seriously in adulthood and spends many nights fasting and praying... and I an educated, traveled, young American, raised in the church, full of ideas and opinions, and hardly able stay awake to pray past 10pm, much less all night. We're still in the awkward learning-to-dance phase of our relationship, trying to figure each other out, pretty sure we like what we're finding, but careful not to step on toes. It makes things move slowly, but I am learning Itrying, anyway) to be okay with that.
After we spend a while planning (ahem, chatting), I head home and scrounge around my kitchen to find something to bake. On Tuesday night, they troop in to our apartment at 6:30 on the nose, bringing with them laughter and questions and enthusiasm and angst and a huge heap of shoes. We settle into the living room, passing around cookies and tea (or whatever other goodies I could find), and eventually dive into the book.
It's been eye-opening, really. The first week my jaw dropped when one of the girls asked us about how to deal with gay people as a Christian -- dropped because I was so thankful she was willing to talk about it, in the conservative Pentecostal micro-culture she has grown up in. The second week my jaw dropped when the girls said, almost unanimously, that none of them had what they considered a "true friend" -- they weren't even sure what it would look like. And this past week, my jaw dropped again when, upon being asked to make a list of 10 things they like about themselves, they looked at me astonished and said, "No way. I can't even think of a single thing."
We were talking about how God has made each of them unique, and how part of His purpose for their lives is to discover the unique ways in which He has gifted them and inclined them, and how they can use those things to serve Him. They nodded vaguely at that, but when I told them I wanted to write down 10 things they like about themselves -- 10 things that they think are valuable to God, no matter how simple or silly -- they balked. I was a bit startled, but I didn't back down. "Come on," I pleaded. "Don't you think that God looks at you and says, 'Hey, I see lots of great things in you. I'm a little offended that you refuse to see any of them!'" That seemed to get their attention, I guess, because slowly they began writing. And after a few hesitating minutes, they were ready to share their lists:
I'm friendly.
I am a loyal friend.
I can make beautiful music.
I have a pretty smile.
I'm strong.
I am not afraid of challenges.
I look good in skirts, and feel good in them too.
...and on and on.
It was beautiful, really, that half hour of transformation. The lists these girls wrote were honest and self-aware and lovely. And as they read them, you could see the other girls nodding. After we all finished sharing our lists, I asked the girls how they felt. Did it feel vain to write things you like about yourself? I asked. Did it feel arrogant to recognize your strengths and gifts? What about when you listened to the other girls' lists? Did you think they sounded arrogant? It was interesting to hear their responses -- how although they delighted in hearing their friends claim these beautiful truths, it was hard for them to accept similar things about themselves. I think that indicates humility on their parts, and I'm proud of them for that. But at the same time, I also think that some of it comes from low self-esteem, which I didn't see before. And now I'm even more eager to encourage them, to build them up, to say, "Wow, I see something beautiful in you," and then to seek God together on what He wants them to use it for. But not to let them deny it. Not to let them pretend it doesn't exist. That would be a disservice to God, and to all of these beautiful, talented girls that He has made, and who I am lucky enough to have in my living room every Tuesday night.
It works like this: on Monday, Janelle and I head to Alina's house, a small cozy place on the far edge of Lupeni. She serves us cake and coffee, even though it's usually after 7pm, and we talk together about what we liked from the book's current chapter, and plan out what questions we want to ask the girls. At least, that's what we talk about for 15 minutes or so. The rest of the time we spend just talking about our lives -- sick family members, new recipes we love, worries about money, what our husbands are doing, things we have been pondering from church. I am coming to really cherish these times, particularly as I get to know Alina better. It's a strange thing, really -- we're so incredibly different -- she born and raised in Lupeni, married at 17, a stay-at-home-mom who came to take her faith seriously in adulthood and spends many nights fasting and praying... and I an educated, traveled, young American, raised in the church, full of ideas and opinions, and hardly able stay awake to pray past 10pm, much less all night. We're still in the awkward learning-to-dance phase of our relationship, trying to figure each other out, pretty sure we like what we're finding, but careful not to step on toes. It makes things move slowly, but I am learning Itrying, anyway) to be okay with that.
After we spend a while planning (ahem, chatting), I head home and scrounge around my kitchen to find something to bake. On Tuesday night, they troop in to our apartment at 6:30 on the nose, bringing with them laughter and questions and enthusiasm and angst and a huge heap of shoes. We settle into the living room, passing around cookies and tea (or whatever other goodies I could find), and eventually dive into the book.
It's been eye-opening, really. The first week my jaw dropped when one of the girls asked us about how to deal with gay people as a Christian -- dropped because I was so thankful she was willing to talk about it, in the conservative Pentecostal micro-culture she has grown up in. The second week my jaw dropped when the girls said, almost unanimously, that none of them had what they considered a "true friend" -- they weren't even sure what it would look like. And this past week, my jaw dropped again when, upon being asked to make a list of 10 things they like about themselves, they looked at me astonished and said, "No way. I can't even think of a single thing."
We were talking about how God has made each of them unique, and how part of His purpose for their lives is to discover the unique ways in which He has gifted them and inclined them, and how they can use those things to serve Him. They nodded vaguely at that, but when I told them I wanted to write down 10 things they like about themselves -- 10 things that they think are valuable to God, no matter how simple or silly -- they balked. I was a bit startled, but I didn't back down. "Come on," I pleaded. "Don't you think that God looks at you and says, 'Hey, I see lots of great things in you. I'm a little offended that you refuse to see any of them!'" That seemed to get their attention, I guess, because slowly they began writing. And after a few hesitating minutes, they were ready to share their lists:
I'm friendly.
I am a loyal friend.
I can make beautiful music.
I have a pretty smile.
I'm strong.
I am not afraid of challenges.
I look good in skirts, and feel good in them too.
...and on and on.
It was beautiful, really, that half hour of transformation. The lists these girls wrote were honest and self-aware and lovely. And as they read them, you could see the other girls nodding. After we all finished sharing our lists, I asked the girls how they felt. Did it feel vain to write things you like about yourself? I asked. Did it feel arrogant to recognize your strengths and gifts? What about when you listened to the other girls' lists? Did you think they sounded arrogant? It was interesting to hear their responses -- how although they delighted in hearing their friends claim these beautiful truths, it was hard for them to accept similar things about themselves. I think that indicates humility on their parts, and I'm proud of them for that. But at the same time, I also think that some of it comes from low self-esteem, which I didn't see before. And now I'm even more eager to encourage them, to build them up, to say, "Wow, I see something beautiful in you," and then to seek God together on what He wants them to use it for. But not to let them deny it. Not to let them pretend it doesn't exist. That would be a disservice to God, and to all of these beautiful, talented girls that He has made, and who I am lucky enough to have in my living room every Tuesday night.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Fân fest: on humility.
Last week, I (Kelly) took a couple days off of work to go visit Roșia Montana, a beautiful little town in the Apușeni Mountains made famous by a gold-mining controversy (we have written more about it here and here). Every year some of the anti-mining activists in the community host a big festival called Fân Fest ("fân" means hay, but you pronounce it like "fun"). A couple of friends from the Fundația were going, and Jack was up at camp for another week, so I decided to go too.
Roșia Montana is gorgeous. My camera was dead, but here are a few photos of the village for you from the wonderful worldwide web:
It's a tiny little town nestled in the mountains, and the festival takes you up and down its hills and valleys, into glens and pastures, to visit various tents where there are discussion forums, concerts, film premiers, arts and crafts, food... it's an activism-focused festival, so the majority of the activities are somehow related to mining, social responsibility, and grassroots activism (though there is plenty of just plain fun, too -- hammocks in trees, paragliding and horseback riding, musical workshops, etc.)
I attended a few really interesting discussion forums, and one of them has stuck with me. It was led by a British guy who works for a London-based advocacy group that is working to help speak up on behalf of indigenous people affected by British mining corporations. Their approach to advocacy is really interesting and wise -- it's not based on their own opinions or outrage, these British men sitting in London. Instead, it's always based on the voice of the local community, whoever they may be, and whatever they may be saying. This group sees themselves as a catalyst, an amplifier, for groups of people who would otherwise never have any voice in the British political system or media. When they are contacted by people whose homes, livelihoods, sacred spaces, or environments are being affected by mining, this group goes there to learn about the situation and listen to the voices of all the affected parties, trying to help find common ground where possible. But when not possible, they consider it their responsibility to speak up for those who otherwise have no one speaking up for them. And so they return to Britain, often with people from the local community, and do everything they can to get the story told and put pressure on British mining corporations, holding them accountable to the British public for any abuse they are causing in other distant corners of the world.
I think I was especially struck by this man's presentation because of its contrast to some of the other people I met at Fân Fest. The festival was a strange thing, as it takes a very strong stand on one side of a complicated issue -- and then hundreds, if not thousands, of outsiders come in and join in that protest, without much room for dialogue. It's quite obvious that not everyone in Roșia Montana likes Fân Fest: from the graffiti at the entrance of the valley pointing people in the wrong direction, to the men in Gold Corporation SUVs roaring intimidatingly down the street, to posters decrying the anti-mining protesters as naive and anti-jobs, to the signs proclaiming the renovation and restoration of historic parts of the village thanks to the Gold Corporation's investment. The retired gold miner who we stayed with refused to even give his opinion on this topic (which I can't blame him for; I'd be sick of talking about it too!) Much of the village has been "bought out" and have moved away, as the company needs to empty all the houses before it can begin its surface-mining operations -- but a good number of people have stayed, for a whole variety of reasons. And it leaves the town with a really interesting feel, like something half-finished. I don't know what it is like during the rest of the year, but during Fân Fest it feels like everyone is just very wary... and then in come all these hippy twenty-somethings with opinions, who are sure they're right about what's best for this community, and spend a few days broadcasting that with their t-shirts and concerts and films. It has to feel a bit insensitive. At least, it did to me.
I still think there is plenty of room for outsiders to care about what's happening in Roșia Montana. The fact that the planned method for mining includes blowing up part of the mountains and creating a lake of cyanide? That affects people far beyond the citizens of this town, and so it seems right to me that others should be able to say, "This affects us too, and this seems wrong." But there are other parts of the story that are a little less simple, and that I am not sure as an outsider what to think about them. And I guess what I found challenging about Fân Fest was that there wasn't much room for real dialogue about these areas that are gray -- the other side was ignored, often cast as ignorant, immoral, and sell-outs. And I don't think that's fair. When all is said and done, I still fall in the anti-mining camp. I still think that the plan for mining in Roșia Montana is disastrous and tragic. But I also think there needs to be much more humility from those of us who don't live there. It's not our home, and that changes things.
There definitely are signs of hope and people who are acting with amazing wisdom and integrity in this whole issue -- particularly local people whose story this really is. My friend Smara told me about some of them, as she has been visiting Roșia Montana for years and has become close friends with many of the people in the community. Her opinion carries weight, I think, and so it was good to hear her say that behind-the-scenes are a lot of local people who are in dialogue, and who are working hard to find mutually-agreeable solutions and do advocacy in honest ways. Maybe a festival that wants to "grow the revolutionary spirit" can never be so nuanced. But I think that us festival-goers need to try. We need to try to care without becoming blind to those whose priorities are different. We need to learn to hold strongly to an opinion, and fight for a cause, without demonizing or ignoring the other side. We need to learn the humility that comes from recognizing that we almost never have the whole picture.
A lesson in humility, learned once again (will I ever stop needing reminders?) for this activist-minded expat who is searching for home...
Roșia Montana is gorgeous. My camera was dead, but here are a few photos of the village for you from the wonderful worldwide web:
It's a tiny little town nestled in the mountains, and the festival takes you up and down its hills and valleys, into glens and pastures, to visit various tents where there are discussion forums, concerts, film premiers, arts and crafts, food... it's an activism-focused festival, so the majority of the activities are somehow related to mining, social responsibility, and grassroots activism (though there is plenty of just plain fun, too -- hammocks in trees, paragliding and horseback riding, musical workshops, etc.)
I attended a few really interesting discussion forums, and one of them has stuck with me. It was led by a British guy who works for a London-based advocacy group that is working to help speak up on behalf of indigenous people affected by British mining corporations. Their approach to advocacy is really interesting and wise -- it's not based on their own opinions or outrage, these British men sitting in London. Instead, it's always based on the voice of the local community, whoever they may be, and whatever they may be saying. This group sees themselves as a catalyst, an amplifier, for groups of people who would otherwise never have any voice in the British political system or media. When they are contacted by people whose homes, livelihoods, sacred spaces, or environments are being affected by mining, this group goes there to learn about the situation and listen to the voices of all the affected parties, trying to help find common ground where possible. But when not possible, they consider it their responsibility to speak up for those who otherwise have no one speaking up for them. And so they return to Britain, often with people from the local community, and do everything they can to get the story told and put pressure on British mining corporations, holding them accountable to the British public for any abuse they are causing in other distant corners of the world.
I think I was especially struck by this man's presentation because of its contrast to some of the other people I met at Fân Fest. The festival was a strange thing, as it takes a very strong stand on one side of a complicated issue -- and then hundreds, if not thousands, of outsiders come in and join in that protest, without much room for dialogue. It's quite obvious that not everyone in Roșia Montana likes Fân Fest: from the graffiti at the entrance of the valley pointing people in the wrong direction, to the men in Gold Corporation SUVs roaring intimidatingly down the street, to posters decrying the anti-mining protesters as naive and anti-jobs, to the signs proclaiming the renovation and restoration of historic parts of the village thanks to the Gold Corporation's investment. The retired gold miner who we stayed with refused to even give his opinion on this topic (which I can't blame him for; I'd be sick of talking about it too!) Much of the village has been "bought out" and have moved away, as the company needs to empty all the houses before it can begin its surface-mining operations -- but a good number of people have stayed, for a whole variety of reasons. And it leaves the town with a really interesting feel, like something half-finished. I don't know what it is like during the rest of the year, but during Fân Fest it feels like everyone is just very wary... and then in come all these hippy twenty-somethings with opinions, who are sure they're right about what's best for this community, and spend a few days broadcasting that with their t-shirts and concerts and films. It has to feel a bit insensitive. At least, it did to me.
I still think there is plenty of room for outsiders to care about what's happening in Roșia Montana. The fact that the planned method for mining includes blowing up part of the mountains and creating a lake of cyanide? That affects people far beyond the citizens of this town, and so it seems right to me that others should be able to say, "This affects us too, and this seems wrong." But there are other parts of the story that are a little less simple, and that I am not sure as an outsider what to think about them. And I guess what I found challenging about Fân Fest was that there wasn't much room for real dialogue about these areas that are gray -- the other side was ignored, often cast as ignorant, immoral, and sell-outs. And I don't think that's fair. When all is said and done, I still fall in the anti-mining camp. I still think that the plan for mining in Roșia Montana is disastrous and tragic. But I also think there needs to be much more humility from those of us who don't live there. It's not our home, and that changes things.
There definitely are signs of hope and people who are acting with amazing wisdom and integrity in this whole issue -- particularly local people whose story this really is. My friend Smara told me about some of them, as she has been visiting Roșia Montana for years and has become close friends with many of the people in the community. Her opinion carries weight, I think, and so it was good to hear her say that behind-the-scenes are a lot of local people who are in dialogue, and who are working hard to find mutually-agreeable solutions and do advocacy in honest ways. Maybe a festival that wants to "grow the revolutionary spirit" can never be so nuanced. But I think that us festival-goers need to try. We need to try to care without becoming blind to those whose priorities are different. We need to learn to hold strongly to an opinion, and fight for a cause, without demonizing or ignoring the other side. We need to learn the humility that comes from recognizing that we almost never have the whole picture.
A lesson in humility, learned once again (will I ever stop needing reminders?) for this activist-minded expat who is searching for home...
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Oh church.
Most of you who read this regularly probably know that Jack and I attend a small Pentecostal church on the far edge of Lupeni. Neither of us had ever attended a Pentecostal church in the United States -- Jack grew up Presbyterian; I was the daughter of Reformed-turned-evangelical-Covenant-church-planters; we both graduated from Calvin College. Although the church we attended there for almost four years was a pretty charismatic one, its connections to both the CRC and RCA kept us in mostly-familiar theological territory. And although the racial diversity of that congregation, and the eccentric and lovable personality of its pastor (Biker Gang Sunday, for instance, or Super Bowl parties in the sanctuary) often brought us new experiences and questions to grapple with, this transition in our ecclesiastical experience has been... a leap of faith, I guess.
Let's start with last Sunday. We were attending the evening service, as we often do (true confession, lest my CRC relatives admire our devoutness -- we don't go to both morning and evening services, as they are both at least 2 or 3 hours long and that's a lot for me on a day of rest. We also almost never attend the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Saturday services. Err.) Anyway. After the service ended, someone mentioned that a "sister" had died, and that her wake was that evening. The funeral parlor is just a five-minute walk from our church, and it's on our way home, so we were sort-of swept into the crowd as everyone herded across the street and into the funeral parlor. And there we stayed for the next hour, filling the lily-scented room with its cracked blue tile floor, arranged in a semicircle around the foot of the coffin where this sister lay in her Sunday best. I had never met the woman, and I don't think many of the others had either, as she was apparently a recent convert. But yet we sang from tattered songbooks that somehow emerged out of pockets and purses, and then listened as a few of the church's elders preached, impromptu, about the importance of being prepared to meet our Creator. Honestly, it didn't seem like a particularly comforting experience for the grieving family members who stood there listening silently, occasionally wiping away tears or brushing away flies from bouquets. But afterwards we were gladly served sugary pastries and Fanta, poured into plastic cups in that persistent way of Romanian hospitality, and I just wasn't sure what to make of it all.
Or then there was last Thursday, when Jack and I decided to attend the prayer service so that we could meet with a youth afterwards to practice some music for the following Sunday. We were late, and walked in just in time to hear a preacher on a video announcing that anyone who wanted to be baptized in the gift of tongues could come forward to receive the Holy Spirit's anointing -- and then there people went, for the next 45 minutes, praying fervently and wildly and loudly, clapping and singing and yelling. And again, I just wasn't sure what to make of it all.
I'm really thankful for this church, and for the ways it is stretching me and making me wonder, opening me up to new experiences, and forcing me to take seriously parts of the Christian tradition that I'd always sort-of ignored. I'm not at all able to wrap up this blog post tidily with some sort of conclusion about "making progress" or "coming to peace" or anything. I still am skeptical much of the time. I still have lots and lots of questions and reservations about all sorts of things that happen at Betel. But I also find myself caring more and more for the people there, and finding them more and more inspiring, and becoming more and more curious about the ways the Holy Spirit works in ways unfamiliar to me -- and open to it, even if it's only one grudging centimeter at a time. I'm not about to take off my thinking cap any time soon, and the Biblical teachings that were so ingrained in me in my childhood are still present and always, always bumping around in my head. But the questions of culture and different Christian traditions and poverty and language, plus the wild workings of the Spirit... and I'm just not sure what to make of it all.
Which maybe, now that I think about it, is just about the right posture to have when it comes to things that are Holy... like church.
Let's start with last Sunday. We were attending the evening service, as we often do (true confession, lest my CRC relatives admire our devoutness -- we don't go to both morning and evening services, as they are both at least 2 or 3 hours long and that's a lot for me on a day of rest. We also almost never attend the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Saturday services. Err.) Anyway. After the service ended, someone mentioned that a "sister" had died, and that her wake was that evening. The funeral parlor is just a five-minute walk from our church, and it's on our way home, so we were sort-of swept into the crowd as everyone herded across the street and into the funeral parlor. And there we stayed for the next hour, filling the lily-scented room with its cracked blue tile floor, arranged in a semicircle around the foot of the coffin where this sister lay in her Sunday best. I had never met the woman, and I don't think many of the others had either, as she was apparently a recent convert. But yet we sang from tattered songbooks that somehow emerged out of pockets and purses, and then listened as a few of the church's elders preached, impromptu, about the importance of being prepared to meet our Creator. Honestly, it didn't seem like a particularly comforting experience for the grieving family members who stood there listening silently, occasionally wiping away tears or brushing away flies from bouquets. But afterwards we were gladly served sugary pastries and Fanta, poured into plastic cups in that persistent way of Romanian hospitality, and I just wasn't sure what to make of it all.
Or then there was last Thursday, when Jack and I decided to attend the prayer service so that we could meet with a youth afterwards to practice some music for the following Sunday. We were late, and walked in just in time to hear a preacher on a video announcing that anyone who wanted to be baptized in the gift of tongues could come forward to receive the Holy Spirit's anointing -- and then there people went, for the next 45 minutes, praying fervently and wildly and loudly, clapping and singing and yelling. And again, I just wasn't sure what to make of it all.
I'm really thankful for this church, and for the ways it is stretching me and making me wonder, opening me up to new experiences, and forcing me to take seriously parts of the Christian tradition that I'd always sort-of ignored. I'm not at all able to wrap up this blog post tidily with some sort of conclusion about "making progress" or "coming to peace" or anything. I still am skeptical much of the time. I still have lots and lots of questions and reservations about all sorts of things that happen at Betel. But I also find myself caring more and more for the people there, and finding them more and more inspiring, and becoming more and more curious about the ways the Holy Spirit works in ways unfamiliar to me -- and open to it, even if it's only one grudging centimeter at a time. I'm not about to take off my thinking cap any time soon, and the Biblical teachings that were so ingrained in me in my childhood are still present and always, always bumping around in my head. But the questions of culture and different Christian traditions and poverty and language, plus the wild workings of the Spirit... and I'm just not sure what to make of it all.
Which maybe, now that I think about it, is just about the right posture to have when it comes to things that are Holy... like church.
Friday, July 25, 2014
On Ukraine.
First of all, just to clarify for those of you who are worried about us, Jack and I don't live near Ukraine. To even reach the border would require a 10-hour drive north, and then to reach an area where there is active conflict would be another long haul. Our lives in this small Romanian town in the Carpathians are unaffected by the conflict in Ukraine in almost every way. I think I am grateful for that -- certainly grateful, at least, for the peace and security we live in, for the lack of fear. But I don't want to forget -- and I so easily do! -- that only one country away, a revolution is happening. (Or it happened, and now a war is brewing. It's hard to tell.) Either way, I don't want to forget. Because although this particular country where we currently live has captured most of my attention for the present, this entire region fascinates me, and always has. In particular, the courage of its people move me to tears. (Public displays of courageous civic engagement always do.) And so I don't want to forget Ukraine, or ignore it, simply because I can.
Which is why I wanted to post a prayer letter we just received from some of our colleagues, a CRWM missionary family serving in Kiev. We haven't met this family, but I feel kinship to them simply because of the fact that they, too, are part of this group of CRWM missionaries serving in Europe and the Middle East -- people we fell in love with in April when we spent Easter weekend together, laughing uproariously and praying honestly and confessing and supporting and encouraging. So I want to pass on what they wrote so that those of you who hold us oh-so-faithfully in prayer can pray for this region, and in particular for Ukraine.
Which is why I wanted to post a prayer letter we just received from some of our colleagues, a CRWM missionary family serving in Kiev. We haven't met this family, but I feel kinship to them simply because of the fact that they, too, are part of this group of CRWM missionaries serving in Europe and the Middle East -- people we fell in love with in April when we spent Easter weekend together, laughing uproariously and praying honestly and confessing and supporting and encouraging. So I want to pass on what they wrote so that those of you who hold us oh-so-faithfully in prayer can pray for this region, and in particular for Ukraine.
We were shocked, abhorred, deeply saddened -- what
other words can I use -- at the downing of Malaysian Airlines flight 17
by the Russian insurgents fighting against Ukraine in the East. We’ve
watched coverage on TV and online in shock and disbelief. We’ve been
angered by the blatant lies, disrespect for human life and for the
victims of this senseless tragedy, and by the unbelievably weak response
of the international community to this atrocity and war crime committed
by the lawless “Donetsk Peoples’ Republic” and their patron, Vladimir
Putin. The best word I’ve seen used to describe the West’s response is
“pusillanious” (had to look that one up!).
While
the shooting down of flight MH17 has taken over the headlines, the
fighting has not let up in the East. Key prayer points:
1. for the Evangelical churches in the conflict zone.
A pastor, his two adult sons and a deacon from one church were brutally
tortured and murdered by the Russian insurgents. Part of the
philosophy that drives Putin is a belief in the purity of Russian
Orthodoxy. This leads him to promote the persecution of Protestants in
the region as they are seen as “Western” by default. Pray for the
church to have wisdom and strength to persevere during this time of
terror.
2. for the refugees.
The UN has counted around 110,000 refugees at the current time. The
number continues to grow. But getting a sense of the exact need is very
difficult. Many have fled the conflict zone to relatives in Ukraine or
Russia. There are around 40,000 or so refugees from the Crimea and the
eastern regions that are living in temporary facilities who need help.
Our ministry partners, Russian Ministries and the Association for
Spiritual Renewal, are addressing the needs of refugees and also the
needs of people who have been recently liberated by Ukrainian forces.
There are many people who have been left with nothing and are struggling
to survive. We are working now with our partners to begin to address
these needs.
3. for the Ukrainian government.
Yesterday the ruling coalition in the Ukrainian parliament (Rada)
collapsed. This has mixed blessings - it forces early elections which
was something Ukrainians want. But it also adds some instability on top
of all of the other problems - military conflict, plane crash, brink of
economic collapse. Ukraine needs our prayers and the support of the
global community!
4. for global leaders to stand up to Putin and to put an end to his reign of terror in Ukraine. For anyone who wants to understand this better I would recommend reading the following article: http://rabble.ca/blogs/
Thank you for your care and concern for us and for Ukraine. We need your prayers and so does this great nation.
Please join us in praying for these neighbors.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
For homesick days.
From my brother Karl. For him, and my sister, and my parents, and a missed family vacation this week in my childhood summer home.
"There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve -- even in pain -- the authentic relationship. Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain."
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer
"There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve -- even in pain -- the authentic relationship. Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain."
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Renovations.
So. There's this group of old men who sit at the bottom of our apartment bloc stairwell playing backgammon... all day, every day. They gather at this tiny little kiosk called Te Quiero which sells all sorts of gross processed, packaged snacks, and they watch each other play endless rounds as they sip beers, shirts unbuttoned to let their bellies catch some summer sun. They're all retired but one (he still works in the mine; I can tell by the ring of coal dust around his eyes, like a thick dark eyeliner). And they apparently have time to spare. Lots of it.
They're quite cordial, and I'm somewhat fond of them, really. Jack and I occasionally stop there to buy mineral water, and they always nod to us and say hello as we head to work in the morning and come home in the evening. Sometimes their wives sit on the front bench, basking in the sun and nodding regally as we pass by with our "buna dimineata" on the way to work. I am never sure what they're talking about or if they're really happy or what... but this little graffiti-covered kiosk seems like their center of gravity. Or something.
So today it really made me laugh to see that they've decided to renovate the kiosk. I'm not sure what they're doing, but it's adorable to me -- they brought in a little cement mixer, and they're all standing around watching and helping and taking turns smoothing the pavement, widening their little backgammon area or something.
Anyway, it's cute. And it made me smile to see renovations, to see people investing in and caring about something as small and simple as their backgammon space.
So go, old guys, go. Maybe we'll buy another mineral water soon to help support the project.
They're quite cordial, and I'm somewhat fond of them, really. Jack and I occasionally stop there to buy mineral water, and they always nod to us and say hello as we head to work in the morning and come home in the evening. Sometimes their wives sit on the front bench, basking in the sun and nodding regally as we pass by with our "buna dimineata" on the way to work. I am never sure what they're talking about or if they're really happy or what... but this little graffiti-covered kiosk seems like their center of gravity. Or something.
So today it really made me laugh to see that they've decided to renovate the kiosk. I'm not sure what they're doing, but it's adorable to me -- they brought in a little cement mixer, and they're all standing around watching and helping and taking turns smoothing the pavement, widening their little backgammon area or something.
(Yes, I took a picture from the balcony.)
Anyway, it's cute. And it made me smile to see renovations, to see people investing in and caring about something as small and simple as their backgammon space.
So go, old guys, go. Maybe we'll buy another mineral water soon to help support the project.
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