Day of Pigs

Where to begin with this subject?

Probably with a message to any vegans or PETA card-holders who are reading:  Stop.
Seriously, don't read this.  Hit "next blog" or get up and go find an animal to save or a chunk of butter to weep over.

That's my upfront apology.

Now on with the business at hand.

Confession:
Yes I've killed me a pig or two in my day.
The Americans are shocked, the Romanians are like "So?  You're over 35, you should have killed more than 2, what have you been doing all these years, spending your days at the dentist?  What about chickens?  No, none? You're pathetic."

The thing is, it's hard to kill an animal.  I wish I were more quoteable on the subject but there it is with the bark still on.  Whether or not you enjoy bacon is pretty much beside the point when it comes time to wield the knife.  Emotionally and physically it's a rough road to travel especially when that road takes you past a dozen Trader Joes, Safeways and Whole Foods.  Oh, just a left turn into the parking lot and the bloody, pig-squealing, husband-weeping business could be avoided you think.  Just a few dollars on the counter and I walk away with a pork chop in cellophane and styrofoam.  

But we don't have Trader Joe's in Obedin.  We don't even have cellophane.  We have knives and pigs and what more do you need when you want a pork chop dinner?  Ah, actually it's a bit more organized than that: when the smell of snow is in the air, when the mayor hangs the lone string of Christmas lights from the electrical pole at the mid-way point on the village road, when the drum kettles are pulled up from the root cellars and dusted off, it's time for little Wilbers to meet their end.  Charlotte does not know how to write "some pig" in Romanian and Tempelton got eaten by the dogs on his way across the yard one morning. It ain't no Hannah Barbera cartoon here folks.

This year we didn't actually have to kill the pig.  I'm glad because I didn't have Marius here to help with that particular task, I only had Mihai and he usually can't manage much more than some quiet weeping while he secretly urges the animal: "Run, run for you life!"

The pig arrived on our doorstep already dead (the point at which it evolves from pig to pork is vague but it might be at this particular juncture) and the next step was the "processing".  What a deceptive word that is.  So small, so simple, so inadequate to describe five or six days of your hands, wrists, arms, knees, feet, nose all up in guts, blood, sinew, fat, muscle and organs.

By the end of the second 8-hour processing day the pig has begun to seek its revenge.

Pig fat coats every surface in your house, which means you can't turn door handles or walk across your kitchen floor without ending up in the splits or careening into the cabinets head first. Extra points if you were carrying a pot of diced pig skin when you fell.

By day four the odor of boiling pork parts hangs thick and humid throughout every cubic foot, not even the bathrooms are safe.  Trying to brush your teeth without breathing through your nose poses such a problem that you give it up entirely, preferring to risk tooth decay rather than have that scent trapped inside your nasal sinuses.

By day five there are no pots nor pans, no plates nor cups nor plastic bins to be found that are not filled to overflowing with pig pieces.  Your children beg for a hot meal and you tell them to stick their peanut butter sandwich in the microwave and leave you alone while you sob into your pig-perfumed hands.

In the end you have tubs of loin and chops on the balconies, pots of organs on the stove, jars of fat on the counter tops and ropes of sausages in the attic. Your pork-scented sleep is filled with nightmares of little cloven-footed animals dancing on your bed, mocking your nauseated, swine-infused exhaustion.

The next morning some insane person requests sausage with their breakfast and you dutifully stumble into the low-beamed attic to retrieve some.  On the way out, choking back the bile, you ram your head into the ceiling and then try to soothe the wound with a pork-fat covered kitchen towel.

Oh is it really that bad you ask?
Yes.
And folks here do this without running water in their homes, without washing machines in which they can throw a load of pork-fat covered clothes and towels...I don't know how they do it.
They do it because they have to.  Not like us silly Americans who do it because we're trying to be Renaissance men and women or who feel guilty enough about the tragedy of pig farms that we don't want to contribute financially to them but not so guilty that we'll give up baby back ribs.
So we get what we deserve.
And while we weep into our pork-infused pillows or crack our heads open on the pork-fat-slick floors I know that somewhere, somehow, a little pig is laughing darkly.

Budapest

I know what you're saying, "Budapest again?"
Go ahead, roll your eyes, huff in exasperation.  I'm all the way over here in tiny Obedin, Romania and I can't see or hear you.

Most of you won't even bother with this post, you'll just skip it and wait for the next installment wherein I will either discuss having a dead pig arrive on your doorstep the day after your mother-in-law has begun chemotherapy or perhaps dental health in the post-communist world.

But for those of you who care (and the short list includes my mother, who really only wants to see photos of her grandchildren, Linda and maybe Tali and Anand if they aren't lost in the Ajanta Caves of India) this is Budapest in the late fall.
Mostly it's little series of photos.  I was fooling around with the lighting, thinking I had finally found the one lone artistic molecule in my body.  Turns out it was just another one of the anal, neurotic molecules of which I have billions upon billions but this one decided to go crazy and wear purple that day.  Fooled me.
So I took photos. The anal molecules force me to use all of the photos I take which brings us to this post.

It begins with the Palikarium (riotously fantastic) and ends with that couple on the bench by the river at dusk...raise your hand if you don't melt over that bit of sweetness.

Venice

There's a scene from The Simpson's Movie: the infamous Dome is coming down over Springfield and one man is under the shadow of the descending edge, darting back and forth, desperately trying to decide if he wants to stay within or without and of course as he's jumping around, undecided, the thing comes down and squashes him flat.  His dying scream is: "I never saw Venice!"

Does that mean I can die now because I've seen it?  At least I know what my dying words won't be.

But we almost skipped it because I didn't feel like going there.
Oh, did I just type that out loud?
It appears I did.
Right now you true Italy devotees are wiping the spray of Montelpucciano off your computer screens.  Let me give you forewarning: do not take another sip until you've finished reading for I've always maintained that confession is good for the soul though you may think it won't be enough to keep me from burning in the Italian Tourism hell.

I can redeem myself by pointing out that we did go.  But it was a near thing.
I hear your wails and groans of disbelief even from my little room in Obedin.  Why?  What could possibly have made you hesitate? you cry.  You think it must have been nothing short of a severed limb gushing liters of blood per heartbeat or maybe even a case of diarrhea so unrelenting that even diapering was ineffective.
No, I just got tired.
We were all tired.  And kind of getting on each other's nerves.  It was obvious we'd reached the downward slope of nerve-getting-on because every sentence began with a tell-tale exasperated "could you just..."
As in:
"Could you just put your pajamas on and go brush your teeth?"
"Could you just stop walking so fast/slow/into the back of me/off where no one can find you?"
"Could you just stop snoring for one night?"

I don't care what sort of al fresco, tuscan, bellisimo, pesto, vino or other Italian-type thing you're doing or seeing, after a while you get tired of hearing yourself snapping at your family members in that waspish voice that haunts your dreams and makes you wonder what you'll be like when you're seventy.
The only solution is to go home and sleep in your own bed and wash your clothes in something other than a bathroom sink.  And that's exactly what I wanted to do as soon as we left Lake Garda.

Problem was, we were driving within 50 km of the city and every time we brought up the possibility of not stopping, we found we couldn't quite look each other in the eye due to the guilt.  One time we actually whispered to each other: "What will people think if we don't?"  That's when I knew it was a lost cause for normally I put very little stock in the opinions of others, but I knew that one day we would have to face Tony Dean and explain just what in the world happened.

So to Venice.

About that I will only say that our lunch was so-so but the shopping was actually pleasant which coming from me says a lot.  As for the rest, the photos speak for themselves.

One of my favorite things was the hotel where we stayed not because it in itself was spectacular in any way, actually it was probably the dumpiest of all the hotels so far.  But I was won over entirely by the staff which consisted of a man named Marco.
Marco's job appears to involve making coffee and then spending the rest of the day sitting in the dining room talking to his guests about the pros and cons of Facebook.  A case might be made that I didn't love Marco so much as it was that I coveted his job but regardless, we spent many an enjoyable and relaxing hour in the dining room with Marco. We were outside of the main city of Venice and within easy walking distance to several grocery stores so in the evenings we feasted on fruit, cheese, salami, wine, and other bits of Italian deliciousness.
Another part of Marco's job involves partaking of whatever groceries the guests bring in but the price he pays is washing our plates so we can't say he doesn't earn his keep there.

I didn't get any photos of Marco.  Once again photo ops came and went while I was stuffing my face.
At some point I said to Mihai, "Could you just go upstairs and get the camera?"
To which he replied, "Could you just go get it yourself?"

But I never did because I was tired.  Bone tired.  The kind of tired where you want to curl up in bed and never get up. But I was I worried about dying of exhaustion?  Not really.  I'd seen Venice.

Lake Garda

At one time or another we've all entertained ideas about a place we want to visit and what it might be like if we ever get there.  (I'm not the only one who's done this, right?)
I try to keep my expectations realistic.  For example, I don't think that when and if I ever get the chance to visit Egypt that I will do so while wearing a white linen gallibaya and traveling by camel hump as music from Laurence of Arabia fills the air.
Or should I ever walk the Scottish Highlands I am certain I will not cross paths with a kilt-wearing 18th century time-traveler to whom I was married in another dimension.
Yeah, I'm not twelve.
But there are less pre-teen-fantasy things to hope for.  Specific vignettes or events that just epitomize a place: Liberty Bridge in Budapest, a pastry shop in Vienna, the Field Museum in Chicago, diving into the Mediterranean in Spain.  Even before you go you've got these little ideas in your head, right?  When at last you see or experience it you say "This is what X place means to me.  Perfect." and then you breathe a sigh of relief that you weren't utterly unrealistic and tweeny-ish in your daydreams.

So we're still in Italy (at least in this blog we are and the fat roll around my middle doesn't yet understand that I am back home and exercising daily) and having a great time.  I have no complaints and everything is lovely and joyful.
And we're making our way slowly but surely back north on our meandering way back home.
On the agenda is a visit to Lake Garda so that we won't have to hear my father say "Sure is a shame you didn't make it there" every time we see him for the next decade (he lives around the corner from us so that would be a lot of times).  As usual we've got the address of a restaurant and as usual it takes us on a very long, winding road outside of the main vein of anywhere.
When we pull up the place looks worrisomely like someone's house and although there is a little sign tacked out front it reminds me so much of a real estate plaque in the States that I'm still not reassured until Mihai jogs down the steps and comes back with a 'thumbs up'.
Oh, but it is a house.  The husband and wife just also run a restaurant out of it.

So to get to the dining room you go through the grandkid's play room, the kitchen where Momma sits knitting and then into the official seating area.  Momma comes over and says (in very broken but understandable English) "We have pasta with meat sauce or butter and sage and chicken or veal.  Do you want red wine or white?"  And that's how you order.
And then the food comes and its so magically simple and wonderful that it dissolves away any foolish notions you might have had that a larger selection would have been better.  Because you know, as surely as you know you were smart to pack your fat pants, you know this was the best thing you could have eaten even if you'd had 10 pages of a menu from which to choose and you also know that this is the moment you have been waiting for because this is what epitomizes Italy: the restaurant run out of the proprietor's home, the verbal menu, the food that makes you want to binge and purge the afternoon away.
And with these views:

Then we had to drive back and really see Lake Garda.
It was a second feast, this one for our eyes and this one I can happily share.
(The lunch feast is currently residing on my thighs and gut and you don't want a photo of that mess, trust me).