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.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Sochi.
It's been interesting to be living abroad for the Olympics this year. I have to say it's actually pretty refreshing -- the coverage is nonstop on Romanian television, with a lot fewer athlete interviews and a lot more sports, and far more even coverage of athletes from all over the world, rather than only the Americans. I miss the NBC trumpet fanfare, but other than that, I think I'd take this vantage point any day.
But it's also been interesting to watch some of the comments on Sochi -- the city itself, the messy and unfinished hotels, the dirty water, the corruption. Through the grapevine of social media and John Stewart, Jack and I have quickly come to realize that Sochi has become a bit of a laughingstock to a lot of Americans.
And it makes me mad.
I know that cross-cultural experiences have their fair share of humor. Mistakes in translation, new foods that startle our palate, and new experiences where we are entirely out of our element -- these things make us laugh, and help us see the world with delight. But there's an important distinction between this sort of delighted-wow-this-is-crazy laughter, and the laughter of disdain and sarcasm, directed at problems you have no intention of becoming involved in.
Corruption isn't funny. Dirty tap water isn't funny either. The fact that the Russian government couldn't even put on a facade to cover these problems, despite the investment of over 50 billion dollars, should make us react not with judgment and ironic humor, but with alarm and sorrow -- because if this is what the "cream of the crop" is getting, what's the reality in the rest of Russia? How dare privileged athletes and journalists from the richest country in the world poke fun at a culture and people they hardly know? (And while I'm at it, how dare they forget that in many communities in their own country, the conditions aren't much better...)
We seem to have forgotten that the struggles of the rest of the world aren't fodder for jokes. The dirty water thing, for instance. Yes, you could joke about it... but the reality is that the water has been polluted because the Russian corporation in charge of much of the Sochi construction set up a huge illegal dump for the waste from its construction project near a local village. The dump dried up the entire village's water supply, and now the wastewater from the dump is seeping into the river which serves as the primary source of drinking water for Sochi. (Learn more here.) Once you hear that, it becomes a lot harder to laugh it off. Sure, it's a problem for the athletes and journalists and spectators who traveled to the Olympics this year. But it is surely not a cause for laughter -- particularly because in two weeks, the Olympics end. But everyone whose drinking water has been ruined by this exorbitantly expensive endeavor? Their water supply remains the same -- dirty, undrinkable, unsafe.
I don't mean to point a finger at Russia. Living in Romania, watching the protests in Ukraine, hearing the stories of this entire bloc of Eastern European countries, has been lesson enough that Communism takes a long, long time to recover from, and that corruption is a really big, horrible, insidious thing. (And no, the issues in Sochi are not entirely the fault of Communism or corruption.) But still, the stories of corruption should disturb us. The unpaid workers used to build the beautiful Olympic Village, without adherence to labor laws, should anger us. The extravagance and expense of the Olympics should alarm us (and that's not just Sochi... that's all of 'em, and all of us).
I love the Olympics. I want them to last, to live up to their ideals, to be a place where we learn about our neighbors around the world, where we feel the best sort of patriotism, where miracles still happen, where beauty and grace and skill are admired by all of us, all around the world, regardless of who demonstrates it. But this part? This ugly part, with the condescending attitudes and insensitivity to the local effects of waste and corruption? This reaction of mockery instead of concern? That I don't like.
So here's to you, Sochi. Thanks for putting on the Olympics. And hang in there.
But it's also been interesting to watch some of the comments on Sochi -- the city itself, the messy and unfinished hotels, the dirty water, the corruption. Through the grapevine of social media and John Stewart, Jack and I have quickly come to realize that Sochi has become a bit of a laughingstock to a lot of Americans.
And it makes me mad.
I know that cross-cultural experiences have their fair share of humor. Mistakes in translation, new foods that startle our palate, and new experiences where we are entirely out of our element -- these things make us laugh, and help us see the world with delight. But there's an important distinction between this sort of delighted-wow-this-is-crazy laughter, and the laughter of disdain and sarcasm, directed at problems you have no intention of becoming involved in.
Corruption isn't funny. Dirty tap water isn't funny either. The fact that the Russian government couldn't even put on a facade to cover these problems, despite the investment of over 50 billion dollars, should make us react not with judgment and ironic humor, but with alarm and sorrow -- because if this is what the "cream of the crop" is getting, what's the reality in the rest of Russia? How dare privileged athletes and journalists from the richest country in the world poke fun at a culture and people they hardly know? (And while I'm at it, how dare they forget that in many communities in their own country, the conditions aren't much better...)
We seem to have forgotten that the struggles of the rest of the world aren't fodder for jokes. The dirty water thing, for instance. Yes, you could joke about it... but the reality is that the water has been polluted because the Russian corporation in charge of much of the Sochi construction set up a huge illegal dump for the waste from its construction project near a local village. The dump dried up the entire village's water supply, and now the wastewater from the dump is seeping into the river which serves as the primary source of drinking water for Sochi. (Learn more here.) Once you hear that, it becomes a lot harder to laugh it off. Sure, it's a problem for the athletes and journalists and spectators who traveled to the Olympics this year. But it is surely not a cause for laughter -- particularly because in two weeks, the Olympics end. But everyone whose drinking water has been ruined by this exorbitantly expensive endeavor? Their water supply remains the same -- dirty, undrinkable, unsafe.
I don't mean to point a finger at Russia. Living in Romania, watching the protests in Ukraine, hearing the stories of this entire bloc of Eastern European countries, has been lesson enough that Communism takes a long, long time to recover from, and that corruption is a really big, horrible, insidious thing. (And no, the issues in Sochi are not entirely the fault of Communism or corruption.) But still, the stories of corruption should disturb us. The unpaid workers used to build the beautiful Olympic Village, without adherence to labor laws, should anger us. The extravagance and expense of the Olympics should alarm us (and that's not just Sochi... that's all of 'em, and all of us).
I love the Olympics. I want them to last, to live up to their ideals, to be a place where we learn about our neighbors around the world, where we feel the best sort of patriotism, where miracles still happen, where beauty and grace and skill are admired by all of us, all around the world, regardless of who demonstrates it. But this part? This ugly part, with the condescending attitudes and insensitivity to the local effects of waste and corruption? This reaction of mockery instead of concern? That I don't like.
So here's to you, Sochi. Thanks for putting on the Olympics. And hang in there.
All hail the cab.
We had quite the adventure yesterday.
We had spent a lovely weekend in Târgu Mureş, reconnecting with friends and a city we hadn't seen in quite a while, and Monday morning it was time to make the 8-hour bus trip back home to Lupeni. Our bus was leaving at 7:30, so we woke up around 6:30 to pack, eat breakfast, and say goodbye to Otilia, our delightful host mom who generously let us stay with her again. Of course, she made us breakfast (eggs, fried potatoes, and salty sheep cheese, paired with sweet fruit tea and slices of white bread), and we stayed and chatted a little too long. We left the house at about 7:20, walking briskly to the stop to catch our bus to Turda. The Rocada bus company has had a little stop in Otilia's neighborhood for years, and it's only a 7-minute walk, so we weren't too worried... until we arrived and saw the sign posted, saying that it had moved.
With only about 4 minutes until our bus was supposed to leave, we frantically skimmed the sign in Romanian, noting that the stop had stopped being used a month earlier and was now located at the bigger bus station on the other side of town. Jack and I looked at each other and took off running, diving into a nearby taxi. "Do you know where the new Rocada station is?" we asked him in garbled, rushed Romanian. He did, and we asked him to take us there as fast as possible.
The taxi driver nodded and took off, skirting the edge of town to get us there as directly as possible. As 7:30 flashed on to the clock, I held my breath and looked out the window for the big white-and-blue Rocada bus. We were just a few blocks from the station when we saw it, already moving. We'd missed it. But the sign said the bus also made one final stop in the city, at a nearby grocery store. "To Kaufland!" we cried. "The bus also stops there!" The taxi driver looked at us, confused, and I explained -- "We just passed our bus. We missed it. It's already moving."
He nodded again and sped up, speeding past the now-unhelpful bus station and onto a busy main street. We could see Kaufland in the distance, but we were in the wrong lane. As we watched, the Rocada bus pulled up to the stop. We held our breath as the taxi driver whizzed through a roundabout to get us turned around. But the bus pulled away just as we pulled in behind it. We were too late.
I sighed -- but that taxi driver wasn't done. He gunned it and pulled up beside the bus as it sped along, honking and waving at the driver. And miraculously, the bus pulled over. The taxi came to a stop and our driver jumped out, gesturing to the bus driver that we wanted to get on. And so we piled out of the taxi, stuffed our fare into the hands of that amazing cabbie, and got on the bus, relieved and a little giddy.
Whew.
We had spent a lovely weekend in Târgu Mureş, reconnecting with friends and a city we hadn't seen in quite a while, and Monday morning it was time to make the 8-hour bus trip back home to Lupeni. Our bus was leaving at 7:30, so we woke up around 6:30 to pack, eat breakfast, and say goodbye to Otilia, our delightful host mom who generously let us stay with her again. Of course, she made us breakfast (eggs, fried potatoes, and salty sheep cheese, paired with sweet fruit tea and slices of white bread), and we stayed and chatted a little too long. We left the house at about 7:20, walking briskly to the stop to catch our bus to Turda. The Rocada bus company has had a little stop in Otilia's neighborhood for years, and it's only a 7-minute walk, so we weren't too worried... until we arrived and saw the sign posted, saying that it had moved.
With only about 4 minutes until our bus was supposed to leave, we frantically skimmed the sign in Romanian, noting that the stop had stopped being used a month earlier and was now located at the bigger bus station on the other side of town. Jack and I looked at each other and took off running, diving into a nearby taxi. "Do you know where the new Rocada station is?" we asked him in garbled, rushed Romanian. He did, and we asked him to take us there as fast as possible.
The taxi driver nodded and took off, skirting the edge of town to get us there as directly as possible. As 7:30 flashed on to the clock, I held my breath and looked out the window for the big white-and-blue Rocada bus. We were just a few blocks from the station when we saw it, already moving. We'd missed it. But the sign said the bus also made one final stop in the city, at a nearby grocery store. "To Kaufland!" we cried. "The bus also stops there!" The taxi driver looked at us, confused, and I explained -- "We just passed our bus. We missed it. It's already moving."
He nodded again and sped up, speeding past the now-unhelpful bus station and onto a busy main street. We could see Kaufland in the distance, but we were in the wrong lane. As we watched, the Rocada bus pulled up to the stop. We held our breath as the taxi driver whizzed through a roundabout to get us turned around. But the bus pulled away just as we pulled in behind it. We were too late.
I sighed -- but that taxi driver wasn't done. He gunned it and pulled up beside the bus as it sped along, honking and waving at the driver. And miraculously, the bus pulled over. The taxi came to a stop and our driver jumped out, gesturing to the bus driver that we wanted to get on. And so we piled out of the taxi, stuffed our fare into the hands of that amazing cabbie, and got on the bus, relieved and a little giddy.
Whew.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Drying days.
Looking out the window at the city park, I see white sheets snapping in
the breeze, like big sea gulls flapping their wings over the snow.
There are kids pulling each other on a runner sled, running slowly over
the field of white, their puffy pink- and red-clad legs moving too fast
for the speed they're going on the slippery surface. Behind them, four
of the five floors of the apartment building are sporting colorful
laundry, hanging from south-facing balconies and fluttering gently in
the breeze. It's February 3rd, but it is sunny outside -- so it's a
drying day.
I haven't met a single person in Romania who has a clothes dryer. Washers, yes -- but when it comes to drying, it's good old clotheslines and drying racks, and none of the electrical, mechanical fluffy warmth I grew up with in the States. Most of the time I'm fine with this -- I like hanging clothes to dry on the balcony on a warm summer day, bringing them inside toasty from the sunshine. In the winter, though, this gets more complicated. Before we had heat in our apartment, it would take our laundry days to dry -- usually three or four, with collars and pocket linings seemingly still damp a week later when you wore the item again. And the apartment has mold issues, so we were always nervous -- begging the laundry to hurry up and dry out so that the humidity level would decrease. Now we have heat, so things go a lot faster -- and we recently got our dehumidifier fixed too, so we feel like we're living in the lap of luxury -- but still, it feels like the drying rack is always, always out.
And so sunny days with a bit of a breeze? Those are good drying days, and we seize them. The laundry goes in first thing in the morning, to be hung on the balcony (freshly-shoveled to be clear of snow for this very purpose) before we leave for work. And our home's laundry joins the hundreds of others, flapping happily in the mid-winter breeze. Drying. Hooray!
I haven't met a single person in Romania who has a clothes dryer. Washers, yes -- but when it comes to drying, it's good old clotheslines and drying racks, and none of the electrical, mechanical fluffy warmth I grew up with in the States. Most of the time I'm fine with this -- I like hanging clothes to dry on the balcony on a warm summer day, bringing them inside toasty from the sunshine. In the winter, though, this gets more complicated. Before we had heat in our apartment, it would take our laundry days to dry -- usually three or four, with collars and pocket linings seemingly still damp a week later when you wore the item again. And the apartment has mold issues, so we were always nervous -- begging the laundry to hurry up and dry out so that the humidity level would decrease. Now we have heat, so things go a lot faster -- and we recently got our dehumidifier fixed too, so we feel like we're living in the lap of luxury -- but still, it feels like the drying rack is always, always out.
And so sunny days with a bit of a breeze? Those are good drying days, and we seize them. The laundry goes in first thing in the morning, to be hung on the balcony (freshly-shoveled to be clear of snow for this very purpose) before we leave for work. And our home's laundry joins the hundreds of others, flapping happily in the mid-winter breeze. Drying. Hooray!
Monday, January 27, 2014
The hunger games.
When we were visiting the States, Catching Fire came out in theaters and Kelly, her sister Kendra and I went to see it. It broke us open. Many of the scenes look like the pictures and videos in the news these days of Syrian opposition and government forces fighting in Aleppo or protesters being beaten back by the police in Egypt. Between that and a reality show where the contestants kill each other for entertainment. The games' tagline is, "May the odds be ever in your favor." You see graffiti protesting, "The odds are never in our favor."
I find it hard to believe that one could watch this movie and come out of the theater feeling good about life (unless you can completely divorce what your eyes see and what your body and mind encounter in the world around you). For one, you just spent 8 dollars on a ticket to keep a multi-billion dollar industry going that uses violence as entertainment. Perhaps you could have bought a burrito or a sandwich for someone for whom the odds are never in their favor. Kelly says that she can't think of that story as removed from the world that we live in, especially since we live in a post-industrial, post-authoritarian region of the world. Here's one story of why.
We were going into the fancier of the two "supermarkets" in Lupeni one evening a few months ago when we met a girl. There are always little Roma girls asking for 10 bani or milk or bread outside of this supermarket, and we usually oblige them. This girl was different. We'd met her in church last week, and we both recognized each other. She asked for some milk for her baby sister, and we gladly bought her some. I forget if we asked her name or not, but I regret not asking. It feels like we've known each other too long now.
We started seeing her often around the city. Not at church anymore, but outside the meat store, outside the Italian restaurant, with her little brother in our stairwell one night. She has a large family, I think 5 or 6 siblings, and she's the oldest at 11. She's with her little, little sister a lot, holding this little, sleeping bundle of clothes and baby. Her brother is full of energy and really talkative once he gets over being shy. She's confident and strong, the oldest child who acts as a second parent. Their mom is a short woman with crooked teeth and a lined face, though I doubt she's much older than 30. It's just her and the 6 or 7 kids, like many Roma families. you receive more government help if you have kids out of wedlock, and since few Roma men can get jobs anyways, it makes some sort of sense.
The mother seemed harsh and controlling to me at first. She was hard on the kids, and the girl has told us several times that she's not allowed to go home and start her homework without milk. I felt anger at their mother for giving this harsh responsibility, and pity for the children. One of the little girls' feet are twisted, so that one points directly towards the other foot and the other is turned almost all the way backwards. I've seen the mother trying to hurry this little girl up as they walk through the city, and I was afraid she would fall for lack of balance and care. I'll sometimes try to avoid them when the mom's around. We're respectful to each other, but I don't trust her. She seems like she's hiding things. But few people aren't.
Last week, the girl and her brother were by the Italian restaurant where our out-of-town colleagues were having lunch. I stopped to talk to them on the way in. They were running down the ramp outside and trying to jump into the square of red bricks in the sidewalk. It was raining a bit, and slippery, but they didn't care. When they invited me to try, I gingerly ran down the ramp and jumped easily into the square. She asked me how you say "taci" in English--she had learned but forgotten. "It's something like 'shuddup,' right?"
"Yeah, you say it, 'shut up.'"
"Yeah, that's it. Thanks." She said thanks in English. She then asked how to say, "ce faci?"
"How are you?"
"Houraou? Oh man, I can't say that. Say it again?"
"How are you." Too hard. Oh well. She told me they also speak Hungarian, and I congratulated her. Hungarian is a hard language. She said that they got cold easily. It was raining, on the verge of freezing, and they only had a plastic bag as a shield and no gloves. I promised to look for gloves and more bags, and then went inside the restaurant to eat a nice, warm lunch in a nice, warm restaurant with our nice, warm friends. I felt like saying bad words the whole time just to express how sad I felt to leave them out there. They kept making faces at us through the window, and it hurt a little more each time.
When I was leaving, they asked me for 1 leu for milk. I didn't have 1 leu, only bigger bills, but I was going to buy some black beans that we had specially ordered, so I could bring back 1 measly leu when I returned. Affirmative. Hopeful. Kelly had already told them she'd buy them some bread. I got to the health food store and the beans hadn't come. No big bills broken. I decided to just buy a liter of milk. Easier that way. They were thankful when I gave it to them. Hopefully, that meant that they could go home and do their homework.
Today, as I was walking back to the office from lunch, I saw their mom outside of the meat store. She saw me too, and beckoned me over. I went, though I didn't want to. She pulled two half-sheets of paper from her pocket and told me that one of her kids was sick with this problem, and another was sick with this problem. She tells me that often and asks for money. I feel so uncomfortable giving money to people begging at this point in my life that I almost always just buy her a bread or say, "I'm sorry, but I can't today." But today, she told me it was only 15 lei for the medicine that was prescribed on this paper, and where in the world would she get that money? I told her that I didn't quite understand what she wanted, but I would go to talk with a colleague who would.
I went to the office, talked to my boss/kind of big brother here Ilie about it. He buys medicine for a Roma guy every month, and it's not cheap stuff. We talked a bit, and I told him I wasn't sure how much to trust her. He told me that especially in Romania, nice, trusting people are sadly seen as stupid and exploitable. Yeah. I know. But I've been recently trying to err on the side of love. I called Kelly and asked her if she was ok with me buying some medicine. She said yes.
I went back down to the mother and clarified what the she wanted me to do. She gave me her ID card and said all I had to do was ask for the medicine and her baby would be fine. While she was digging out her ID card, she asked me to hold the baby. She's probably 8 months old, sleeping, so beautiful from what little of her isn't covered by her snowsuit. I walked to the pharmacy, bought the medicine, and came back, quietly triumphant. The mother thanked me "from her soul," as you say here. I asked her baby's name. "Ana."
"She's beautiful."
"Yeah, I hope this medicine helps her."
"Me too. May God help you."
"May God help you. Thank you."
We all do what we can to survive. Some of us have to work harder at it than others, so that means some of us can help out more. She's not just a controlling mother. She wants to increase her family's odds. I'm glad to have done what I could to help today.
I find it hard to believe that one could watch this movie and come out of the theater feeling good about life (unless you can completely divorce what your eyes see and what your body and mind encounter in the world around you). For one, you just spent 8 dollars on a ticket to keep a multi-billion dollar industry going that uses violence as entertainment. Perhaps you could have bought a burrito or a sandwich for someone for whom the odds are never in their favor. Kelly says that she can't think of that story as removed from the world that we live in, especially since we live in a post-industrial, post-authoritarian region of the world. Here's one story of why.
We were going into the fancier of the two "supermarkets" in Lupeni one evening a few months ago when we met a girl. There are always little Roma girls asking for 10 bani or milk or bread outside of this supermarket, and we usually oblige them. This girl was different. We'd met her in church last week, and we both recognized each other. She asked for some milk for her baby sister, and we gladly bought her some. I forget if we asked her name or not, but I regret not asking. It feels like we've known each other too long now.
We started seeing her often around the city. Not at church anymore, but outside the meat store, outside the Italian restaurant, with her little brother in our stairwell one night. She has a large family, I think 5 or 6 siblings, and she's the oldest at 11. She's with her little, little sister a lot, holding this little, sleeping bundle of clothes and baby. Her brother is full of energy and really talkative once he gets over being shy. She's confident and strong, the oldest child who acts as a second parent. Their mom is a short woman with crooked teeth and a lined face, though I doubt she's much older than 30. It's just her and the 6 or 7 kids, like many Roma families. you receive more government help if you have kids out of wedlock, and since few Roma men can get jobs anyways, it makes some sort of sense.
The mother seemed harsh and controlling to me at first. She was hard on the kids, and the girl has told us several times that she's not allowed to go home and start her homework without milk. I felt anger at their mother for giving this harsh responsibility, and pity for the children. One of the little girls' feet are twisted, so that one points directly towards the other foot and the other is turned almost all the way backwards. I've seen the mother trying to hurry this little girl up as they walk through the city, and I was afraid she would fall for lack of balance and care. I'll sometimes try to avoid them when the mom's around. We're respectful to each other, but I don't trust her. She seems like she's hiding things. But few people aren't.
Last week, the girl and her brother were by the Italian restaurant where our out-of-town colleagues were having lunch. I stopped to talk to them on the way in. They were running down the ramp outside and trying to jump into the square of red bricks in the sidewalk. It was raining a bit, and slippery, but they didn't care. When they invited me to try, I gingerly ran down the ramp and jumped easily into the square. She asked me how you say "taci" in English--she had learned but forgotten. "It's something like 'shuddup,' right?"
"Yeah, you say it, 'shut up.'"
"Yeah, that's it. Thanks." She said thanks in English. She then asked how to say, "ce faci?"
"How are you?"
"Houraou? Oh man, I can't say that. Say it again?"
"How are you." Too hard. Oh well. She told me they also speak Hungarian, and I congratulated her. Hungarian is a hard language. She said that they got cold easily. It was raining, on the verge of freezing, and they only had a plastic bag as a shield and no gloves. I promised to look for gloves and more bags, and then went inside the restaurant to eat a nice, warm lunch in a nice, warm restaurant with our nice, warm friends. I felt like saying bad words the whole time just to express how sad I felt to leave them out there. They kept making faces at us through the window, and it hurt a little more each time.
When I was leaving, they asked me for 1 leu for milk. I didn't have 1 leu, only bigger bills, but I was going to buy some black beans that we had specially ordered, so I could bring back 1 measly leu when I returned. Affirmative. Hopeful. Kelly had already told them she'd buy them some bread. I got to the health food store and the beans hadn't come. No big bills broken. I decided to just buy a liter of milk. Easier that way. They were thankful when I gave it to them. Hopefully, that meant that they could go home and do their homework.
Today, as I was walking back to the office from lunch, I saw their mom outside of the meat store. She saw me too, and beckoned me over. I went, though I didn't want to. She pulled two half-sheets of paper from her pocket and told me that one of her kids was sick with this problem, and another was sick with this problem. She tells me that often and asks for money. I feel so uncomfortable giving money to people begging at this point in my life that I almost always just buy her a bread or say, "I'm sorry, but I can't today." But today, she told me it was only 15 lei for the medicine that was prescribed on this paper, and where in the world would she get that money? I told her that I didn't quite understand what she wanted, but I would go to talk with a colleague who would.
I went to the office, talked to my boss/kind of big brother here Ilie about it. He buys medicine for a Roma guy every month, and it's not cheap stuff. We talked a bit, and I told him I wasn't sure how much to trust her. He told me that especially in Romania, nice, trusting people are sadly seen as stupid and exploitable. Yeah. I know. But I've been recently trying to err on the side of love. I called Kelly and asked her if she was ok with me buying some medicine. She said yes.
I went back down to the mother and clarified what the she wanted me to do. She gave me her ID card and said all I had to do was ask for the medicine and her baby would be fine. While she was digging out her ID card, she asked me to hold the baby. She's probably 8 months old, sleeping, so beautiful from what little of her isn't covered by her snowsuit. I walked to the pharmacy, bought the medicine, and came back, quietly triumphant. The mother thanked me "from her soul," as you say here. I asked her baby's name. "Ana."
"She's beautiful."
"Yeah, I hope this medicine helps her."
"Me too. May God help you."
"May God help you. Thank you."
We all do what we can to survive. Some of us have to work harder at it than others, so that means some of us can help out more. She's not just a controlling mother. She wants to increase her family's odds. I'm glad to have done what I could to help today.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Work work work work work.
Last year, I (Jack) was a little worried that I would get bored working for FNO. My job is very seasonal, as most camp jobs are. Work from 8 til 11 or 12 in the summer, and perhaps not really have much to do in January or February. I'm the assistant director from America at a Romanian camp, so I'm not so good at going out to look for kids or writing the big reports. A common question for me when we were in the States was, "So, Jack....what are you going to do when you go back? What are you gonna work on?"
Well. Let me answer your question, to all of you who were so kind to be worried about me getting bored.
Right when we got back, I was given a large part of the work on FNO's relationship with European Volunteer Service (a lot like American Peace Corps). We usually have 4 or so European volunteers in the summer at VIATA, and I have to write a lengthy application to ask for the funds from the EU to host these folks for this summer.
I'm looking for American interns for this summer as well. There are two lovely people who have already shown interest, and we're looking for three more to come learn and work at VIATA from mid-June to mid-August. If you know anyone who likes camps in the mountains and doesn't have summer plans, let us know! Love those plugs.
I'm looking for money for VIATA and for other FNO projects. Kelly and I want to start crowdfunding campaigns for putting gas heat in the other FNO apartments (since having it in ours has been SO WONDERFUL already!!), and we'll start one for bringing the kids in Lupeni's residential center to VIATA soon. We're also raising a bit of money for equipment to replace our old ropes course safety devices.
Speaking of that gas heating, the installation was mercifully short (only three days of work), but it was taxing to get up early those mornings when the guys would come and then one of us to stay home for half the day and switch at lunchtime. There was a lot of dust, a lot of noise, and a lot of displaced items. But now we're back to order in the home, and it's warmer and dryer. Thank you for giving us enough money so that we could do this, and thank you Lord for your goodness of provision!
The other day, our chief operations officer asked if I had any time to translate some documents for our website, and I said that I would start slow and see how much I could do.
And then on Monday, during a staff meeting (which I was skyping into from home while the worker guys drilled the heck out of our walls), it was mentioned that one of our buildings needed a paint job in the main room. I volunteered, since I'm the resident painter here, and my boss Ilie actually got worried for me that I was taking on too many projects. What a change from telling folks that I was planning on looking for interns, making a few portable ropes course elements, and experimenting with modeling clay for this summer!
I thank God for giving us work to do, and for a good place to rest. When we first arrived in Romania and all we did all day was learn Romanian and try to buy and cook food, I slept very poorly. I didn't have enough work to do to get me tired, and I actually dreaded going to bed some nights. These days, I'm very happy to fall into bed. It's nice.
Well. Let me answer your question, to all of you who were so kind to be worried about me getting bored.
Right when we got back, I was given a large part of the work on FNO's relationship with European Volunteer Service (a lot like American Peace Corps). We usually have 4 or so European volunteers in the summer at VIATA, and I have to write a lengthy application to ask for the funds from the EU to host these folks for this summer.
I'm looking for American interns for this summer as well. There are two lovely people who have already shown interest, and we're looking for three more to come learn and work at VIATA from mid-June to mid-August. If you know anyone who likes camps in the mountains and doesn't have summer plans, let us know! Love those plugs.
I'm looking for money for VIATA and for other FNO projects. Kelly and I want to start crowdfunding campaigns for putting gas heat in the other FNO apartments (since having it in ours has been SO WONDERFUL already!!), and we'll start one for bringing the kids in Lupeni's residential center to VIATA soon. We're also raising a bit of money for equipment to replace our old ropes course safety devices.
Speaking of that gas heating, the installation was mercifully short (only three days of work), but it was taxing to get up early those mornings when the guys would come and then one of us to stay home for half the day and switch at lunchtime. There was a lot of dust, a lot of noise, and a lot of displaced items. But now we're back to order in the home, and it's warmer and dryer. Thank you for giving us enough money so that we could do this, and thank you Lord for your goodness of provision!
The other day, our chief operations officer asked if I had any time to translate some documents for our website, and I said that I would start slow and see how much I could do.
And then on Monday, during a staff meeting (which I was skyping into from home while the worker guys drilled the heck out of our walls), it was mentioned that one of our buildings needed a paint job in the main room. I volunteered, since I'm the resident painter here, and my boss Ilie actually got worried for me that I was taking on too many projects. What a change from telling folks that I was planning on looking for interns, making a few portable ropes course elements, and experimenting with modeling clay for this summer!
I thank God for giving us work to do, and for a good place to rest. When we first arrived in Romania and all we did all day was learn Romanian and try to buy and cook food, I slept very poorly. I didn't have enough work to do to get me tired, and I actually dreaded going to bed some nights. These days, I'm very happy to fall into bed. It's nice.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Heat.
Our apartment has heat! Our apartment has heat!!
It's been a few days of topsy-turvy, plaster-dust-covered, drills-roaring mess... but Apartment Lucy is warm. And just in time, as the balmy, sunny weather of the last few weeks is turning to rain and the temperatures are steadily, ominously dropping.
I am so thankful. So thankful I can hardly sit still. It's astonishing what the end of this project feels like -- as we slowly mop up the debris and adjust to the new industrial-looking pipes running the length of the walls and get used to this new reality... of 25 degrees Fahrenheit warmer in our apartment tonight than it was this morning. Oh yeah.
So, a few things that will take some getting used to:
1) Gas heat = hot water in the kitchen! But I still found myself headed to the bathroom with the dish tub in hand to fill up after dinner. I guess some habits take a bit of time to break.
2) Leftovers will no longer stay naturally refrigerated if we leave them in the pan on the stove. Sad. But on the plus side, butter will soften if we leave it on the counter! Whoa.
3) I might find places to sit other than bed for the next three months when reading, writing, or otherwise not moving in our apartment. As I write this, I'm on -- wait for it -- the couch. The one by the window. With just one blanket. And hatless, I will add. This is revolutionary. (I won't tell you how many blankets are on our bed.)
4) Our laundry will dry! Our laundry will dry! And it won't start to mold as it does so!
5) Getting out of bed in the morning, or exiting the shower, or putting on clothes, or washing my hands, won't evoke gasps and frantic rushing about in an attempt to recover from shock. I can't even begin to describe how happy this makes me. Mornings just got so much brighter.
Oh man, y'all. This is really exciting. I'm astonished, and thankful beyond words, to all of you who support us financially -- because you made this happen. You helped us install heat in our apartment! And now I'm going to invite lots of people over to share the love, including all of you if you can make the trip. And even if you can't, I just want to say thanks to each of you, oh lovely people scattered across North America -- today you have really really really made me smile.
It's been a few days of topsy-turvy, plaster-dust-covered, drills-roaring mess... but Apartment Lucy is warm. And just in time, as the balmy, sunny weather of the last few weeks is turning to rain and the temperatures are steadily, ominously dropping.
I am so thankful. So thankful I can hardly sit still. It's astonishing what the end of this project feels like -- as we slowly mop up the debris and adjust to the new industrial-looking pipes running the length of the walls and get used to this new reality... of 25 degrees Fahrenheit warmer in our apartment tonight than it was this morning. Oh yeah.
So, a few things that will take some getting used to:
1) Gas heat = hot water in the kitchen! But I still found myself headed to the bathroom with the dish tub in hand to fill up after dinner. I guess some habits take a bit of time to break.
2) Leftovers will no longer stay naturally refrigerated if we leave them in the pan on the stove. Sad. But on the plus side, butter will soften if we leave it on the counter! Whoa.
3) I might find places to sit other than bed for the next three months when reading, writing, or otherwise not moving in our apartment. As I write this, I'm on -- wait for it -- the couch. The one by the window. With just one blanket. And hatless, I will add. This is revolutionary. (I won't tell you how many blankets are on our bed.)
4) Our laundry will dry! Our laundry will dry! And it won't start to mold as it does so!
5) Getting out of bed in the morning, or exiting the shower, or putting on clothes, or washing my hands, won't evoke gasps and frantic rushing about in an attempt to recover from shock. I can't even begin to describe how happy this makes me. Mornings just got so much brighter.
Oh man, y'all. This is really exciting. I'm astonished, and thankful beyond words, to all of you who support us financially -- because you made this happen. You helped us install heat in our apartment! And now I'm going to invite lots of people over to share the love, including all of you if you can make the trip. And even if you can't, I just want to say thanks to each of you, oh lovely people scattered across North America -- today you have really really really made me smile.
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