Best Laid Plans

The Genesis of a Poorly Crafted Plan: 

(otherwise known as How the Map of Europe Fools Americans)

One rainy Saturday morning your power goes out and so, instead of scrubbing the mold from between the shower tiles or cleaning out the refrigerator, you plop down in your living room and begin browsing through an atlas of the world.  You might prefer to open a cooking or fishing magazine but the atlas will provide you with a better story when your spouse comes in and demands to know why you are doing  nothing more productive than occupying space on the furniture.  After 10 minutes of contemplating the exports of Peru and Bolivia you stumble over the map of Europe.  After a while you find yourself thinking that it looks an awful lot like a bowl of jelly beans; each little country with its own color and flavor, mixed together in a cheerful cluster. From your comfortable spot on the couch, examining a one-dimensional piece of paper, it sure seems like traveling through Europe could be as easy as dipping your hand into a candy bowl and sampling half dozen pieces. You will start with your favorites like cherry (France) and lemon (Spain) and then, because its right there, you figure its easy enough to go for grape (Czech Republic) and orange (Switzerland). So it seems, as you walk your fingers over the boot that is Italy and the tiny spot that is the Netherlands, that seeing all of these places in the span of, oh, say a week or so, should be completely do-able. 

After hearing your plans, some of your friends try to advise you to pick one area, fly in and really saturate yourself with that culture and scenery. But they are the sort of folks who do things like clean the leaves out of their gutters before a heavy rain so should you really be taking their advice? Hardly. Besides, you have heard of people who have hitchhiked through Europe and it took them a whole summer just to see half a dozen countries. Your plan is to go by car which means you can cover much more ground in less time. "Listen", you tell your friends, "I once drove for 12 hours from Amarillo to the Gulf and I never left the state of Texas. If I spent 12 hours driving in Europe, I could have visited 3 or 4 countries!"  Clearly you have convinced (and impressed) them because thereafter they no longer will speak with you on this subject. And every time you glance at that map, you know that this whole thing is going to be as easy as eating candy from a candy bowl.

However, its going to take some weeks to get your passport so while you wait for the U.S. government to mail that precious dark blue notebook, let's go over the nuts and bolts of the driving bit.

The American's Guide to the European Road Trip

First: There is some math involved here. I'm just warning you up front. Also, you need to take a brief personality test (you can only fail if you have no personality in which case you are not likely to be reading this blog, you are likely to be reading InStyle magazine and trying to emulate Paris Hilton).

Question #1 When not at a fancy restaurant do you still eat with your fork tines turned down?

Question #2 Does the thought of carrying a man purse not make you want to drop and do push-ups?

If you answered yes to both questions, feel free to use the metric system for the calculations. For everyone else, stick with measuring everything in miles and feet. (If you do not know what fork tines are and if the words “man-purse” make you want to shoot at empty beer cans, you might want to question why you would want to visit Europe in the first place.)

Here comes the math so climb the dusty attic of your brain, sweep past the long-forgotten dates of the Spanish-American war, duck under the rules for when its allowable to use a split infinitive (is it ever?) and brush off how to figure percentages. Ready? Let's go

Start with listing all of the cities you would like to visit. (limit yourself to 32 or so) Add up the distances and then divide that total by the average kilometer per hour you imagine you can safely travel while driving in a country in which you cannot read any of the road signs. See how easy this is? You're doing great.

Now you know you're going to get lost at least once so take your total and multiply it by 5.7 to give yourself the adjusted time. If you think this is too high, you should be aware that there is something called a round-about which is the staple of the European roadway. Think you won't encounter one? Sure, not if you don't leave the airport.

If you're going to Germany or Austria, subtract 1.6% for traveling on the autoban but for every former Soviet bloc country you plan to drive through, add 61.23% . This is to compensate for bad roads and the fact that you will spend approximately 33.7% of your time behind a horse drawn wagon which will be traveling at 0.98 kmph and it will take you, on average, 4.07 km to pass each of these wagons. If you will be going in May, add an additional .05%. Don't ask why, its too complicated to explain, just do it.

Good news: if you will be driving in a Western European made car, you can simply stop here. You have your total travel time. Now you can cancel the road trip and start looking for tour bus packages.

Bad news: if you are driving in an Eastern-European made car (for example a Dacia) that was manufactured any time before October of 2010 and/or has greater than 521 km on the odometer, you must take your original figure and multiply it by 82 for rainy days and 73.2 for all other types of weather.  There is also a discomfort factor with the Eastern European cars but that has its own algorithm and requires a graphing calculator so I'm omitting it unless its specifically requested.

Please note that there is a rare but distinct possibility that you will come up with a number for the total driving hours that actually exceeds the total hours of your entire vacation.  If this happens, do not panic. Follow the example of those who have experienced this same phenomenon in the past and simply burn your passport and move to Fresno.

Budapest

For a reason I cannot fully articulate, I have always wanted to go to Budapest.  Why?  I'm not sure.  To be honest, I really knew nothing at all about this city, nothing of its history or culture or sights.
I think I just like the way it sounds.
Budapest.
It conjures up images of things bohemian and antiquated.
I had no real expectations but even if I had, I don't think I would have come away disappointed.  The end result of our stay here was:

WE LOVED THIS CITY

photos just don't do it justice but we tried

Lucian turned 10 years old while we were in Budapest and he said it was one of the best days ever!

Primavara (Spring)

Spring comes to Obedin

Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world. - Virgil A. Kraft

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. - Nadine Stair

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. - Rainer Maria Rilke

In spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. - Margaret Atwood

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself. - Zen Proverb

He that is in a town in May loseth his spring. - George Herbert

For us, Spring = Memorial time.  The hall is in the city and of course the road from our house to there is under construction.  We're still working out the timing: traffic in the am weekend vs traffic in the evening weekday, where to park, how long it takes us to walk, etc.  Sometimes we arrive absurdly early and sometimes by the skin of our teeth as was the case Memorial night.  However, this was due to certain young boys talking on the phone to a certain grandmother who had called to check and make sure we were getting ready and able to make it.  

The irony.  

Village Life part 2: Natural

For optimal health and disease prevention, the American Medical Association recommends that individuals engage in 30 minutes of moderate to brisk walking per day.  At a brisk pace we can go from one end of our village to the other and still have 6 minutes for some cardio bursting runs up and down the hill in our backyard.  That is, in the beginning of our stay we had time for the glute-torturing hill walks.  These days crossing the village takes somewhat longer as we have become a local curiosity.
Its not just that we speak English as we go, (forgive me, I know I should be working at all times to perfect my Romanian but this is one of the few opportunities we have to free talk in English) the problem is that we appear to walk back and forth for no purpose which is a subject of much confusion amongst the locals.  Its not to say that they are averse to a stroll through the countryside, no.  However, in our case we pass by  going at a pace which suggests we must be some place urgently and then ten minutes later there we are again, going in the opposite direction with equal  speed and determination.  This behavior can be overlooked once or twice but daily?  How to understand such inexplicable goings on?

There is no logical answer and the conclusion they reach is similar to that of my great-grandfather who used to sit on his front porch and watch the joggers who ran past. "In my day," he would say "a man could get enough exercise by working, he didn't need to run in circles looking like a fool."
Fractious walking aside, a mere glance in our direction and they know that we are not merely new in town but foreign.  There is something peculiar about Americans; the way we wear our hair, the color of it and the length, the cut of our clothing, color choices, fabric, accessories and, as any American who has ever traveled to Europe knows, our shoes give us away long before we open our mouths.

The inhabitants of Obedin, who perhaps are not as familiar with international footwear, come to the conclusion that  we are Italian.  We don't realize this mistake at first and are left wondering why they all greet us with "Buon giorno" and the rest of their statements are peppered with words like "piacere" and "scusi, che?" and, as they grow increasingly desperate, "il vino rosso".  The boys whisper "what are they saying?" to which I  have no reply except "I don't know, just wave and keep walking" and the locals think Italians are a very stupid and rude bunch indeed.
At last some bold soul asks (in Romanian): "Voi sunteţi Italieni, no?"  "No," I respond, " noi suntem Americani"  Oh!  From then on they speak to us in Romanian with a heavy Italian accent so that we are sure to understand them better.
Upon learning who we are, why we have come and how long we plan to stay, their initial reaction seems to indicate that we have done an incredibly foolish thing to have exchanged living in America for a life (no matter how temporary) in Romania.  But only moments after this fact (that we are great fools) has been established there develops a keen desire to make us understand just how much better everything here is than in the U.S: the flowers here are surely more beautiful, the soil is far superior, the milk from the cows is "fresh", which we soon discover is one of their favorite American words.

"Natural" is another such word and they take great pains to point out that in Romania the tea is "natural", Romanian strawberries are "natural" and the honey here is "natural" as well.  Believing I have found persons who share my values and interest in organic, sustainable, locally sourced agriculture, I agree wholeheartedly and launch into an excited discussion regarding the undesireableness of GMOs and pesticides.  In return I receive blank stares.  I try for the dictionary and when that doesn't help, I get a translator.  They have no idea what I am talking about.  So if they aren't giving me a mini lecture on the benefits of organic foods, what is their point?  Do they think Americans eat plastic strawberries?  To date I remain uncertain what this emphasis is on "natural" and on the whole I would be indifferent but for the unfortunate bit where they tell you about the "natural" with one hand on your shoulder and standing close.
Very close.
And you must repeat it back while they continue to stand very close.  "Natural."
"Natural."
"Natural"
"Yes, I understand.  Natural."  Are they waiting for me to pronounce it differently?  I try to accent the first syllable, the middle, the last.  It makes no difference.
"Natural."
When you have inhaled about as much of their breath (and other odors, I mean to say they are very close) as you can possibly tolerate and have repeated this word a sufficient amount of times you will know you have met some kind of mysterious quota because they will suddenly laugh, give your shoulder a good shake and step far enough away so that you can at last breathe some "natural" air.

                                                     

natural raspberry jam

                                                             

natural cheese

                                                         

natural beef

                                                               

natural water

                                                           

natural milk

This superiority of Romania is such a favorite theme that even at the risk of life and limb it must be prommulgated.  On our way to school one morning a local man rides by on his bicycle.  "Hey, Italians!" he hollers and waves, "The weather is so much better here than in America!" and although its been raining and windy and the road is covered in mud, I know he means it sincerely and I don't mind agreeing because he is far enough away that I can't smell his breath.
While he is looking back to be sure he has convinced us,  his front tire hits a large patch of horse poop and he is unceremoniously dumped into the road.  I rush over to see if he is injured and he picks himself up and brushes the horse poop off his sleeve.  "Its okay," he tells me with a heavy Italian accent, reaching for my shoulder, " Its natural."

Village Life Part 1: Funerals

Our little village of Obedin 

So our next door neighbor has died.  Seeing as how I never met her and therefore cannot claim friendship or any other sort of ship you may wonder why I would mention this event at all.  Well, it has brought to my attention that the main focus of this blog appears to be centered around food with an occasional pause in our hedonism to interject something cerebral only for the sake of the children's education. But far be it from me to promote a strictly epicurean lifestyle.
As the late George Harrison once said (and I think he was loosely quoting either Rumi or The Bhagavad Gita) "All else must wait, but the quest for God cannot."  I think of this and apply it quite literally at times and at other times I apply it in principle; photos of chili cheese dogs and descriptions of soul food restaurants must take a back seat to life's larger events: birth, death, visa extensions...
So in the interest of promoting greater worldwide cultural awareness (isn't that the new buzz phrase?  or maybe not, after all, I've been gone some weeks now and I am no longer current with the fast-changing American lingo) I am endeavoring to expand my blogging repertoire beyond provender and the occasional scenic view to subjects with a tad more depth.
A caveat: if your spouse/parent/roommate complains that you spend too much time browsing the web visiting witless, inane sites, (aka this blog) you can now proudly proclaim that you are perusing material for a possible degree in thanatology.  That otta shut 'em up!
Alas, if all you seek are photos of Crepes Suzette and stories of tweens being sent to kindergarten then this post might be too esoteric but have no fear, in two weeks I am off to Vienna where I hope to do nothing more than consume pastries and sausages.
 Being a closet thanatologist myself, as well as an ex-hospice worker, palliative/hospice care nurse you can see my obvious personal interest in the subject of this post.  That being said, there are photos of a dead body as so if anyone feels queasy about viewing this, I recommend you either squint at the screen to obscure the image (unless you are myopic in which case you should open your eyes very, very wide) or simply close now and wait for the next installment.
So....the story here:
The cause of death was the number one killer of all humankind: batran.  (translation: old age).  She was an elderly woman, unmarried with no children who lived alone with none but her dogs and the first indication I had that anything was amiss next door was the incessant, nocturnal barking of said dogs.  Happily I refrained from standing on my balcony at 2 am and screaming at them to shut up as I later discovered that the reason for the excited clamor was the arrival of a nephew and sister who came to hold vigil over the body.
The next morning, amidst a great deal more barking, there arrived a swarm of people from all over the village and a great deal of coming and going and what sounded like a three piece band struck up next door.  Yes I am a budding thanatologist but that doesn't mean I want to PRY into the lives of my grieving neighbors, it was bad enough that I was snapping photos of the goings on from my front and back balconies.  My attempt to be  clandestine was hopelessly unsuccessful (note to self: if this nursing thing goes bust I have no future as a member of the paparazzi).
I was eventually assured that my photo taking and curiosity were a matter of indifference to the surviving relatives. The nephew matter-of-factly informed us that his aunt was not a very nice woman and no one was particularly grief-striken over her death and in fact, they had hired mourners for the day because they felt it was not very propitious if no one was crying.
I just report the news, folks, I don't make it up.
                                                             

So here it is:

Photos from a funeral

The priest arrives

                                                

The hearse/truck is prepared

                  

The body of the deceased is carried out of the house and properly arranged

     

Ready to begin the ritual: she will be driven up and down the main village road accompanied by relatives and villagers and afterward the conglomeration will go to the church and cemetery for the burial

  

I wish there was a way to include the sound: this reminded me very much of a New Orleans' style funeral, just to give you some point of reference

"Oh when the saints come marching in...."

A house in mourning

While I don't believe in, or advocate shackling society with the strict observance of  elaborate or oppressive mourning rituals, there is some benefit to be derived from something like this black band displayed around the pillar of my neighbor's house.  Western culture eschews such observances and we are generally too quick to say to someone grieving: "get over it and move on."  For anyone who has been bereft of a dearly beloved one, you know the feeling is akin to be flayed alive; you are vulnerable and your vital organs are tender and exposed.  In the best application of a mourning symbol it says to the world outside that you are suffering a wound and for a society that endorses the real meaning behind it, they say "be gentle with this person, they suffer from wounds unseen."

How To Maintain Your Dignity When You Are A 12-Year-Old Attending Kindergarten:

Well...you don't. 

That doesn't mean you have to let yourself go and wear pink leg warmers while styling your hair like a member of Spandau Ballet.  No.  

But let's face it: you are 163 cm, you are almost ready to shave and when you answer the phone, people mistake you for your father, not your mother.  And there you sit sharing a stool with a lisping three-year-old in a classroom decorated with construction paper tulips.  So admittedly its tough.  

But dude, think about it: you are 163 cm, you are almost ready to shave, you are from California, you own an iPod, you have been surfing in the Pacific Ocean, you have been to New York City and Disneyland.  This is just a tiny, obscure village in the middle of Eastern Europe and as far as these kids are concerned, you are a celebrity.  

None of your friends back home have to know.

If you won't tell I....

will

Getting ready for school (they thought they were getting out of this for a year-ha!)

These girls are not members of the kindergarten class, these girls are only here to look at

these boys.

This is the kindergarten class

Gabi, he's three (they start early here)

                                             

Nicolas, Georgiana, Cristi and Emil

                                                                         

Leo

                                                                    

  Răzvan and Alina

                                                           

One of life's universals

                                                                     

Irina

                                                                          Recess

                                                   

so much more fun with big boys

big boys who aren't too cool to play with little boys (and girls)

              
My children: thanks for being willing to give and share your hearts and your joy.
To teacher, Teo: thanks for taking on two American boys and being willing to teach them how to read and write in Romanian.  Talk about going above and beyond everything we could ask for.

The afternoon football club

Team World Cup 2018