Village Life part 5: Village Idiots

Once or twice I've mentioned the driving around here, haven't I?  Its probably the single most difficult thing for me to cope with.  I mean even more than trying to get my visa extended.  Seriously.  Because for all its insanity, the visa is at least a one-time deal (a one-time deal that drags on for months but still, once I get or don't get it, its over and we move on) but the driving situation is never-ending.
I know I have a prejudice, I fully admit to it:  I hate driving.  I hate being in a car. I don't care how luxurious the vehicle, I don't care how good the road, I don't care how desirable is the destination to which I am headed.  I hate driving.  Or even being a passenger (I think I hate that more if possible).  So is it a surprise that I have such a large, unwieldy ax to grind?  No.  

One of the things I love about where we live in Santa Cruz is that there is very little traffic on our street but unfortunately, for as small as Obedin is, any traffic we get is pronounced because the house is built so near the road. 

Why people build their homes so close to the road is the subject of another post, more germane for this post is why do people drive like idiots?  Folks, I'm not going to sugar-coat it, the drivers here are complete imbeciles.  (I'll refrain from using more colorful words, this is a family show).

Now I know we have some very bad drivers in the States but let's face it, 9 times out of 10 when you witness someone being reckless it turns out the driver was a teenager or someone on drugs. Here its grandparents, doctors, lawyers, parents with little children in the car and they are all stone cold sober. Oddly enough, you don't see many teenagers behind the wheel here but maybe that's because there is no thrill to be had. Oh I suppose a case could be made about depressed economic conditions making it almost impossible for teenagers to have cars but I think its something else.  I think it has to do with the fact that one of the tenets of the teenage experience is engaging risky behavior to express their independence. But why drive like an idiot when your parents and grandparents do the same thing? There's no fun in that.

Now its true that there are some decent drivers. And its true that there are plenty of non-drivers who are frustrated with the idiots. Nicolina and Titel frequently express their dismay at the idiocy. Yet by and large everyone has adopted the attitude of “I can do nothing about it.” I don't know if this is left-over from communism or a result of dealing with the Romanian bureaucracy. In any case, no one seems too interested in trying to fix the problem of idiots racing through our village.

If no one else seems to care about this situation why should I?  I don't know, maybe its the nurse in me; maybe I've seen too many people being feed pureed food through a straw because hunks of their brains were splattered on the side of the highway.  Maybe its the mother in me because I don't like the idea of my children setting off metal detectors at the airport from all of the pins and rods required to keep their femurs intact.  Maybe I just have common sense and the ability to think ahead and I realize that someday some idiot is going to kill someone. Who knows. And anyway, its not a problem that is unique to our village, its all over the country.

Again, why?

I suppose some of the answer lies in what I call the Fundamental Rules of Driving in Romania and I will illustrate with a few photos from an incident that happened not far from our house about a month ago:

The first rule is that there is no such thing as a one-lane road or a two-lane road or any sort of conventional standard as you know it.  Rather, the road has as many lanes as there are drivers who are willing to squeeze past each other. Don't ever expect that just because you see a large bus filling a narrow country road that the approaching drivers will say to themselves "Hmm, this large bus is taking up the whole road, I'd better pull over or at least slow down to make sure we both can fit."  If you expect that, you will be disappointed.  Because what you are more likely to see is the approaching traffic pick up speed, lay on the horn and use part of someone's front yard to expand the "road" so that they can pass the bus.  Passing is the name of the game here.  You see, its really not driving, its passing.  You pass wagons, you pass large, lumbering trucks, you pass slow cars, you pass fast cars, you pass people who are trying to pass the slow cars ahead of you, you pass people who are trying to pass you.  (That last one is not a type-o.  I've seen it people.)

Rule number two is that there are no hazardous driving conditions.  Because the danger of everything is evaluated after the fact.  If you pass someone on a blind curve on a rainy, dusky evening and you don't crash into oncoming traffic, the situation is afterward evaluated as having been completely safe.  If, however, you crash and find yourself in the middle of crush of metal, bits of bone and blood, the situation was obviously a complete disaster.  But you don't make this evaluation before you decide to pass on the blind curve, no.

There are no risks, there are only bad outcomes.  The driving philosophy seems to be that you don't think about the potential risks prior to any decision you make while operating your vehicle, you just deal with the outcomes that follow and look baffled when they turn out badly.

The third rule of Romanian driving is that the greater the hazards on the road, the more speed you should apply.  If its a sunny, pleasant day and there is no one on the road, you can feel free to slow down and make way for the lone pedestrian you may encounter here and there.  However, if its raining and there is a group of children walking to school, a man on a bicycle, a wagon and several buses, be sure to keep your foot firmly on the gas pedal at all times.  Why should you slow down? you have your horn and the liberal use of it should be enough to let everyone know that you are there and its their responsibility to get out of the way.

Finally, (this one applies to non-drivers) if you are unfortunate enough to be plowed into by any vehicle while you are innocently riding your bicycle or pursuing other normal activities of daily living, be sure to wave off the incident as nothing.  Especially if you have not suffered more than some bruising and minor bleeding.  Please, be sure to do this so that there are no repercussions for the driver. Tell everyone gathered around that the driver was not at fault for talking on the phone and speeding on a rainy day.  If you are the driver of said vehicle and you find yourself surrounded by angry villagers demanding to know why you are driving with such reckless disregard for human life be sure to insist that they are all stupid.  Also be sure to mention the fact that you are pregnant and that they are endangering the life of your unborn by causing you emotional distress.  When someone points out that this is all the more reason why you should have been driving with greater care, stare at them blankly and then ask what one thing possibly has to do with the other.

If you are the police, be sure that when you arrive you get very irritated with everyone involved in the case for interrupting whatever it was that you were doing before you were called to the scene.  Be sure to imply that no one is at fault, that these odd things just happen sometimes, who can understand the mysterious workings of the universe?  If someone points out that the rainy conditions and presence of a man on a bike should have caused the driver to turn off the phone and slow down, stare at that person blankly and ask what one thing has to do with the other.  Instead focus on the most important issue which is whether or not anyone present has any outstanding fees they have not paid so that you can collect the fines.

Finally, the last bit which is not a rule, its just a sad, pathetic fact which is that part of the reason none of the bad driving in our village will really ever improve, why we can't get everyone together to help fix the problem (I.e: speed bumps or something) is that most all of the drivers who race down our road like idiots live here.

 The old man in the blue rain boots and cap was the one who was struck by the young woman in the black leggings and beige trench coat.  Everyone else just had nothing better to do but hang around and watch.  (Some things in life are universal)

 

Village Life part 4: June

This post should probably not be titled "village life".  I should call it something like "The Mundane Activities of Villa Ionescu".
How's that for a compelling intro?  Don't expect much from me today.

I would have thought that by now, nearing the end of the first week in June, we would have been sight-seeing in another country.  Or at least in the process of packing to go sight-seeing in another country.  However, we are in a bit of a holding pattern due to the visa issue: if we are to live as nomads for the next six months, we must relish the time left that we have to keep our clothes in drawers.  And we must be ever available lest the immigration or translation office calls requesting more declarations.
So here we are.
Fortunately there is plenty to keep us busy as the days grow warmer (and warmer and warmer) and the garden flourishes and we prepare for the influx of family coming from Peru/Austria.

Strawberry picking

Do I need to mention that these are natural and fresh?  

Oh, will it ever end...?

Walks to the river

And a swim

Some people decided that the frogs make too much noise at night so they have forced them to relocate by destroying their habitat. I, however, get no sympathy with the dog barking.

Nothing says summer like a bowl of cherries.

Each afternoon/evening we are treated to a sound/light show.  Its very cool until it knocks the power out while you were in the middle of writing in your blog...

We're replacing one of the fences and there's a crew here working on it daily: Foanză, who is not too shy to pose for a photograph and Cosmin, who is.
There is also Titel but if I photographed him every time he did something around our house, I would have nothing but pictures of Titel.

This past weekend Silviu and Pia went up north for Pia's 50th high school reunion.  While they were gone, Foanza and Cosmin made a surprise for them in the path surrounding the fountain.

I assure you that we do venture beyond the boarders of our village and our property lines (gradeniţă, grocery shopping, the meetings, etc) but lately most of our time is spent within the confines of our compound.  I have come to think of it as such since we appear to be intent on walling ourselves in with concrete fences and heavy metal gates.  

We're not security freaks, really.  Its just the Romanian way.  I like the privacy that the high walls afford; my one complaint is that they do not provide a sound barrier against the nocturnal barking of the village dogs.  But as I mentioned earlier, no one cares about my sleep deprivation.

Privacy, while important to me, does not appear to be any sort of motive for the locals.  The fences are mainly there to keep out the Gypsies. 

I realize I have not yet written about this famous/infamous group of Romanians.  The truth is, I'm not sure what to say.  I don't know much about their history or culture.  If I was considerate and industrious I would have spent some time researching this subject which would have enabled me to share some of my gleanings with you all.  In general I'm pretty considerate but apparently I don't have enough of this quality to propel me into industriousness.  So do your own research people (but by all means email me and let me know what you found out or better yet, post a comment for everyone else to read-they are starving for something educational here.)
So the following is entirely my own opinion and has no real basis in fact or any sort of anthropological research at all.  Prepare to be unenlightened.

It seems there are two groups of Gypsies: those who remain apart from the majority of Romanian society and those who have assimilated into the mainsteam.  I suppose you could rightfully argue that if they have assimilated, they are no longer Gypsies. Again, since I've not done enough research, I can't respond to that definitively.   

Those that remain apart are very distinct: they live in canvas tents or the skeletons of brick houses on the fringes of cities and villages (usually on some unclaimed pasture land).  The women dress in layers of long, full skirts decorated with copious amounts of beading and sequins.  The men sometimes wear the stereotypical vest and blousy shirt but not always.  You can usually identify them by their very dark, long straight hair and swarthy complexion.  And they have attitude.  Is it pride, arrogance, a defense mechanism from being rejected by the majority in their country?  I don't know.  I've witnessed some episodes of thievery but I would never claim, as some do, that they are the sole source of petty larceny in this country.  Is it more noble to commit a crime in secrecy under cover of night or to do so without apology in broad day light?  I'm not sure but they certainly offer no apology whatsoever no matter who might see them pilfering whatever they can carry.  It takes either nerve or extreme desperation and I think it must be a little of both in their case. (please don't misunderstand me, I am not condoning stealing no matter who does it).  

Unless they fit the obvious criteria as outlined above, its hard for an outsider like me to figure out who fits the definition of assimilated Gypsy.  I usually only become aware of this designation when I hear a certain person referred to in conversation as "oh yeah, that Gypsy kid/man/woman, etc."  I don't know what the intention is but it feels somewhat prejudical to me because its generally reserved for people who are poor and have dark hair.  And knowing how generally disliked Gypsies are in Romania, I don't use the term this way.

I have no photos of the unassimilated Gypsies. I'm sorry. 
The main reason is that they really do live quite apart from the rest of society.  Another is that if you try to take a photo, they will be sure to ask you for money.  Aggressively ask.  And ask is probably a nice way of putting it.  I know, because I made this mistake once.  

However, this attitude is not without its benefits: once I saw a group of Gypsy women walking in the middle of the road, refusing to step aside no matter what sort of vehicle they encountered.  You probably can't appreciate the glory of this act because I didn't preface my statement by telling you that many Romanians drive like idiots. Well, there it is: they drive like idiots.  I can say that because I have personally witnessed the idiocy so often and to such an extent that I tell you this as a fact; its not an opinion.  They race through our little village at breakneck speeds, tires squealing around the corners, blaring their horns at those of us unfortunate enough to be on the side of the road, trying to walk from one place to another.  They're idiots.  So when I saw these Gypsy women walking five abreast in the middle of the road, not moving aside no matter how loud the horns were honking, walking with that attitude, forcing the cars to slow down...well, I wanted to applaud them.  

But I didn't because I was afraid they would ask for money.

Food

I'm kind of a fan of cooking shows.
(This is saying something because I despise television)
But not just any cooking shows.  Watching a cooking show must be like watching Barcelona or Udinese play futbal: easy, rhythmic, exciting but not in that I've-had-12-espressos-on-an-empty-stomach kind of exciting.  I don't want to have to pop a nitro tab afterward.
I want to relax and enjoy the experience, to forget that it takes huge amounts of talent to perform the feats I see displayed on the screen before me.  I want to be made to believe that I, too, can weave through all of Real Madrid's defenders, past Casillas, and score.  

Once I tried playing soccer.  It looked like I was having a seizure.  Its pretty similar when I'm in the kitchen.  But I'm okay with being horrible at soccer because its not, after all, necessary for life (so we tell ourselves as the end of the season approaches) but being inept in the kitchen is most unfortunate.

Oh, sure I know how to grow food and I certainly know how to go to the grocery store and buy it, but to put all of the raw ingredients together in the form of something tasty, savory, even something half-way edible, alas, no.

By way of consolation some of my friends have offered such comments as "Don't worry, you have other talents". Thanks everyone but last time I looked at Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, food was right there after oxygen so I'm not sure just how I'm compensating with anything at all relevant.  (One suspects empty platitudes)

Fortunately for me and my family, Mihai can cook and does so with great skill.
Unfortunately, Mihai has a day job which often renders him otherwise occupied.
When we are in Santa Cruz this is not a problem since there is this place called Tacos Moreno.
Unfortunately there is no Tacos Moreno in Obedin.  Or even in Craiova.  And I'm guessing I can pretty much rule out all of Romania as well.  Restaurants in Romania are largely just places you go to when you are on the road and you run out of the food you brought with you but you've got 6 hours left to drive.
Here its home cooking or bust.

Fortunately my mother-in-law can cook and is not often otherwise occupied.
Her food is nothing short of fantastic and I'm not just saying that to flatter her so that she will continue to cook for me because after all, she doesn't read English and she has no idea this blog even exists or that I might be telling you all about her.  (And, knowing Pia, she would not care one way or the other).
No, its genuinely delicious and I find that this is the case most every where I go: Marius' mother=delicious, Simona=delicious, our friends in Brasov=delicious.
I don't mean the kind of delicious you say to someone when you are at their table and you simply want to be polite. I mean the kind of delicious where you wish you were a cow so you could have six stomachs to fill.

Its not that there aren't fantastic home cooks in the States.  Sure there are, I know a good many of them; I've lived with some (I'm talking to you, Alma).

But what is so particularly awe-inspiring is that the meals here are prepared under some of the most inconvenient if not adverse circumstances.  (No, not like that crazy show where the guy is dropped in the middle of the frozen tundra and has to prepare a banquet for the heads of GE).

I mean here they cook what they do with nothing more than two dented pots, a wooden spoon and knives that haven't been sharpened since 1963.  No blenders, juicers, mixers, reamers or rasps, no recipe books, no measuring cups or spoons, no Good Grips potato peeler or garlic press.  And still they turn out meals that blow your mind.  Its true that Pia now has a kitchen that is bigger than my bedroom back in the States but it wasn't always so.  She used to cook in this:

and did I mention that she now does this one-handed?  (post chemo nerve damage has rendered her left arm largely useless).

In the case of Marius' mother, she cooked a four-course meal for over 20 people out of her broom-closet sized kitchen with a prep space that measures about a meter square.  As I recall, the temperature neared 100 degrees that day and after the meal was over every bowl and plate had been licked clean.

In the case of Simona, she manages with nothing more than a partially functioning stove and an outside sink at the house at Vaideeni.  Still by some miracle she produces some of the best food I have ever eaten.  In fact, much of the food pictured in this blog thus far was produced in the Vaideeni kitchen.

Romania has no clearly defined nor internationally renowned cuisine like French or Chinese.  It's mostly just taking whatever ingredients are on hand and making the best of them.
There are certain staples such as eggs, bread, cabbage, bell peppers.  Fresh from the garden in summer, pickled and brought up from the root cellar during the winter.

Probably the most specific dish is Ciorbă.  A kind of soup with a thin, sour broth, made with whatever is on hand including nettles in the spring.  Yes, nettles.  It's fantastic.

Its with regret that I inform you that we have no food stylist here.  I find that my photography skills are just not up to the task of making a bowl of soup look exciting or, frankly, even the least bit appetizing.  But it is, I promise you. I just can't get it to translate for the camera.

There is a drink made from the flowers of the elderberry tree.  Here its called soc.  While the flowers are drying they smell alarmingly similar to the sweaty armpits of a 12-year-old boy which I have been smelling a lot of these days since the weather is becoming increasingly warm.  Not to fear, however, because in an unexpected but pleasant turn of events, when these flowers are added to simple syrup, the combination produces the most lovely juice; it is delightfully fragrant and refreshing over sparkling water.  Ah, the miracle of chemistry!

Similiarly, rose petals are turned into syrup (petale de trandafir) which makes for an interesting drink when combined with sparkling water.  Its not my personal favorite but many Romanians living in the States get very nostalgic for this smell and taste.  The rose petals look so lovely in the bowl that I couldn't resist a photo.

I am in awe of these women.  True, I am in awe of someone who fixes Kraft Mac n' Cheese on the stovetop instead of the microwave but I think you can agree that cooking here involves something extra special.
It carries a lot of what Michael Pollen espouses, a lot of what the locally sourced, locally grown movement is all about.  Cooking with what is seasonal and on hand.  Dare I say cooking with what is natural?  No, let's not go there.

Legalization. Naturalization. Immigration. Deportation. Frustration.

Come on now, did you really think that I had forgotten to update you all on the visa extension debacle?  True, I've not said much about it but that has been due to there not being much to say due to lack of progress and also due to there being so many more pleasant things about which to write.
When I say there hasn't been much progress I don't mean that hour upon hour upon hour have not been spent walking the streets of Craiova visiting government office after government office.  Don't kid yourself.  But does that mean anything has really been accomplished?  Ah, your optimism makes me laugh.
However, not all is at a complete stand-still.  We have achieved some successes and as of May 20 at 14:20 we can report the following:  Mihai has an ID and is once again legal in his country of birth.  The boys, due to having a now-legal father and the fact that their birth certificates were translated into Romanian, are now citizens.  These three members of the Ionescu Traveling Clan can stay in Romania as long as they would like.
Then there's Leigha.
Let me summarize the situation with a nice visual:

citizen

citizen

citizen

 persona non grata

Its possible that the biggest roadblock (the translating of the U.S. marriage certificate) might well be resolved by the end of this week.  Its also possible that astronomers will detect a planet-destroying meteor hurling its way to the earth and the President of the United States will hire Bruce Willis and his team of handsome, quirky renegades to neutralize it before it kills us all.
Yeah.
So if and when the translation is complete, Mihai and I will no longer be living in sin and then I will have a mere 200 or so pieces of documentation that I will need in order to submit a request to remain legally in this country. All of these documents will have to be notarized and photocopied and I will have to attach declarations* to each.  None of these things (the photocopying or the notarizing or the declaring) can be done in the same building.  That would be too convenient.  However, if all of this can be accomplished before June 15, we are in business.  If not, we will be posting photos from many, many other countries in Europe.
In a nutshell: if we get the temporary resident card in time, we will stay here and if not, we will spend six months living around Europe until I am allowed back into Romania.
I will spare you the whining about having to travel because I am fully aware of how pathetic it sounds.  All I can say is that I really like living here and I would prefer to be able to stay but I'm sure a month in Barcelona will make up for it.   
Is that really all there is to the story?  Oh surely you know there is at least one tale of absurdity but if I am going to get those papers then let me have them in my hands before I do a tell-all.  If I don't get them, then let me spend a few days lying on a beach in Greece and throw back a few glasses of Ouzo so that all of this seems a humorous memory...
So, a little more patience, please, and all will be revealed.
*declarations are legal documents for which you must hire a lawyer to write down stuff that we normally all take for granted such as:
Along with my marriage licence I had to submit a "declaration" in which I declared that I was married on the date stated in the marriage licence and that I was, in fact, married to the man whose name appears in the marriage licence and that I was thereafter willing to be called by the name stated in the marriage licence as well as the name I chose to put on my passport.  Once the marriage licence is translated (in effect, reproducing all of the information I have just declared-which was of course already declared on the original marriage licence) I will then have to produce another declaration at the office of immigration that I (some of you have guessed it and some of you now think I'm just making this up as I go along) was married on the day stated in the declaration and the licence, that I was married to the name whose name appears....