Pickles in the stairwell (and other thoughts on neighborliness).

Our stairwell smells like pickles.

Just to clarify, there are no pickles there -- it's actually our neighbor's woodpile.  For some reason the wood they burn in their stove to heat their apartment is extremely pungent, and it really, really, really smells like pickles from the instant you hit the second floor on up.  But it's not that bad -- funny, really, and a better alternative than the more typical dank-mold-stench that wafts from the basement of most apartment blocs.

Anyway, that's not really the focus of this post.  As many of you who read this blog know, it has been one of our consistent prayers and dreams to get to know the neighbors in our stairwell -- those eight apartments we pass by on the way to our own, the last apartment on the top floor.  Our neighbors directly across the hall have been a source of a bit of sadness and stress for me, as they are quite standoffish and unfriendly, and tend to leave their trash/shoes/bicycles/wood/couch/ladders/etc. scattered across the landing in front of our door.  But we're making progress on that front -- we're taking turns putting in new lightbulbs when the landing goes dark, and nodding in acknowledgment of each other on the street.  Each time feels like a little victory for me.

Our downstairs neighbors, though -- they've been much more friendly!  It's not typical in Romanian culture to get to know your neighbors, to chat and exchange recipes or borrow cups of sugar -- and that's something I've missed since leaving our lovely neighbors on Calkins.  I've lowered my expectations for neighborliness -- no more shared compost piles and community dinners in this stage of our life (at least not yet!).  And that's what has made the past few weeks so sweet.

In the last month, we've been invited into two of our neighbors' homes: the elderly couple on floor 2 who we sometimes help carry groceries for, and the superintendent and his wife on floor 3, who I was totally intimidated by when we first moved in.  The Dreptates (they're the elderly couple on the second floor) invited me in one day after work, and then when Jack arrived a little later they brought him in too, pouring us tall glasses of homemade wine and sitting down to talk for almost two hours. They've lived in this bloc for over 30 years, ever since it was first constructed, and they were happy to tell us about the other neighbors, the two empty apartments, the changes they've experienced in the building and in the community since they first moved in to bloc A2.  It was lovely, and we all promised to do it again sometime -- but even if it doesn't happen, it was wonderful to feel like we'd been welcomed for the first time by our neighbors.  Now we often see Mr. Dreptate outside, playing parcheesi with a group of old men, and greeting him by name is a delight.

Then, just a few days ago, we stopped at our superintendent's door to mention that our doorbell/intercom wasn't working.  He invited us in to explain the problem, and we got to talking, until finally his wife scolded him to let us come sit down.  She made us tiny cups of strong coffee and we talked about Lupeni for long time while our groceries wilted by the door and their grandkids ran in and out of the kitchen.  They were really understanding people, interested in and appreciative of the work of FNO and youth development.  And again, I left with a grin on my face, promises of coffee in our own apartment sometime. 

I am trying to keep my optimism at a realistic level about life in bloc A2.  But these two encounters have been balm for my soul, a small taste of acceptance and welcome, a delight.  Now the superintendent is working to get the basement cleaned out and sanitized, with all the neighbors chipping in money to pay for the removal of the mold and muck.  I was so happy to be asked to pay our portion -- because for now, these are our neighbors and this is our neighborhood.  And now it's starting to feel like it.  Pickle smell and all.