How To Maintain Your Dignity When You Are A 13-Year-Old Attending Kingergarten

Back to school time.  

Yeah, the kids are still in grădiniţă.  Guess we didn't push their Romanian quite as hard over the summer as we thought we might.  But not all is lost: Teo has a new program for them which is really effective.  They're writing in sentences and getting tested every day.
And I'm not going any more.  Really.  The poor kid has to be able to keep some self-respect.
And the fifth grade teacher has suggested Mircea come to her class next week to hang out.  I'm not sure what that will accomplish other than get him out of the tiny room with the three-year-olds but I'm not one to suggest anyone turn down a new opportunity cause you just never know what might come of it.
The reality is that even if he was fluent, he would not be in the fifth grade class.  In fact, he wouldn't even be at the little school house in Obedin, he would be in Breasta at the high school.  Quite frankly I can't see us driving him there every day.  Quite frankly I can't see the teachers there really going for our whole current education philosophy which includes pulling our kids out of school for every interesting travel opportunity that comes along.  They're not really keen on that sort of thing here.
So it's just as well that he's with Teo and the three-year-olds.

We actually missed the official first two days because we were in Transylvania travelling. Just all part of our unorthodox year. (unorthodox always sounds so much better than flaky and somewhat irresponsible, doesn't it?)

And in the meantime, for all of you that have politely expressed alarm over the state of my children's education, I'm happy to report that we're hitting the books hard here at home. Science, math, social studies, language, reading. Really.  Four hours a day after they get home from grădeniţă. And yes they are passing their competencies. My guilt was keeping me up at night but these days I'm sleeping just fine (when the dogs aren't barking).

Grădiniţă isn't as fun as it used to be because most of their favorite friends have moved on to the school in Breasta. Their hours are different and unfortunately they get out too late to join us at the poiană.  But it's a new year, a new mix and we've changed some things up.  Now its skipping rocks at the jiu on Mondays,

hiking the hills on Wednesdays

(our faithful Irina troops along even if she forgot to change out of her flip-flops)

 and the pioană on Fridays

It's a younger crowd but they still have fun.
So we've lost Ana, Roberto, Mădălina and Laurenţiu to the school in Breasta although we got a nice surprise one evening when Ana came by needing help with her English homework.  (Just what I wanted, more kids learning English.  But its not about me, right?)
Were my children thrilled to be able to help her with those pesky contractions? Were my children happy that I had forced them to learn what contractions are and how to use them properly themselves? (so much for the 'when will I ever need to know this information' argument) Oh, it was a photo just waiting to be taken but I restrained myself for the benefit of those teen/pre-teen sensibilities.

On the home front we're busy with autumn, my absolute favorite time of the year.

Măru is helping out with wood chopping and cleaning to get ready for winter.  That is, when Măru isn't being attacked by cows.  He's got a black eye and a nasty laceration on his lateral left calf which so far has managed to stay free from infection.  A certain RN has been doing some wound care and keeping her skills sharp.  (No photos of that.  You're welcome.)
And check it out, his shirt says Santa Cruz.  He bought it at a second hand shop in Craiova.

So that's us on these last few days of my favorite month of the year: school work, cleaning, canning, enjoying the cold mornings and warm afternoons.
And battling head lice.  Always the head lice.
What, you thought it was all glamour?

Palincă

This is Nuţa.  She makes palincă.

This is palincă.

You can drink it straight from the bottle if you're that sort of person but the rest of us use these cool traditional pottery cups.
If you are not very careful, it will get you drunk in the amount of time it takes to say "I can hold my liquor."  It will also burn the topmost layer of cells right off your tongue and lips.  Remember the blood from the alien in the movie Alien?  You get the idea.
This is the recipe for palincă: fruit. fire. time.
Nuţa isn't the only one who makes palincă, most women of her generation do.  Because one of her hands is compromised, it's difficult for Pia to make her own so this week Nuţa came over made ours.
It's usually made in the fall and enjoyed all year.  In Obedin it's often palincă o'clock. We in Villa Ionescu imbibe far more moderately. There is a pear version that is wickedly good.  Its better left alone.  The plum variety is harsher but safer.

Nuţa made 16 liters from the plums off our trees.
Wow-za.

The Larger Family Unit

The lack of emotional security of our American young people is due, I believe, to their isolation from the larger family unit.  No two people - no mere father and mother - as I have often said, are enough to provide emotional security for a child.  He needs to feel himself one in a world of kinfolk, persons of variety in age and temperament, and yet allied to himself by an indissoluble bond which he cannot break if he could, for nature has welded him into it before he was born.  ~Pearl S. Buck

Did I already mention that we met  up with my cousin Tali in Budapest?  A series of fortunate events took place and made this all possible.  I hadn't seen her in five or six years and when we found out we were all going to be in Europe at the same time, well...

It's great to travel and see new things and try new food and all of that but when you do it in the company of those whom you especially love, its just that much more marvelous.  So here we are: Dan, Marcy, Tali and Anand (no, not Johnny Depp) being drug all over Transylvania by the Traveling Ionescus (plus Silviu) and for the most part, having a ball (I think. I hope).
And by the way, I've discovered I am far less adept at taking decent photos of people than I am of buildings which tend not to move or stuff food in their mouths at just the wrong moment so, er, sorry.

Silviu wondering to himself why he ever agreed to be the extra driver in the second car...

Ye gotta git yorself some ceramic busts...

Heading to the river for an afternoon of swimming and relaxing.  It was a nice break from driving and traveling.

Someone turned 13 while we were in Sighisoara.  A teenager and he's not ashamed to be seen with us yet.

Tali and Anand are off for a great adventure in India and elsewhere.  I definitely think they should do a blog, don't you?

Transylvania Sighişoara

Dracula Is Not the President of Romania.
I saw that on a t-shirt once and it made me laugh.  But just for the record, he's not.  And just for the record, Vlad Ţepeş, the 15th-century Wallachian ruler, was the figure upon which Bram Stoker apparently based his nefarious, blood-sucking character when he wrote his book.  And just for the record, the grandfather of Vlad Ţepeş was Mircea Cel Bătrân. And that concludes the history portion.  Don't expect any more from me because I'm not that cerebral.  I don't try to learn anything when I travel, I just eat and take pictures of the pretty things I see.
You want cerebral, read a book.
But let's face it: if you go to Transylvania, you can't get around the whole Dracula thing.  You'll find the image of Vlad Ţepeş on coffee mugs and key chains, on dinner plates and playing cards and any other item that can be ruined by the cheesy practice of copying that rather unattractive face onto it.  The idea of seeing his beady-eyed representation while taking my first sips of morning coffee does not seem a pleasant prospect.  And I'm sure the idea of his likeness showing up on a refrigerator magnet is enough to make Vlad Ţepeş roll over in his grave. Except that he's not rolling or do anything else of course because he's dead (really, he's dead) and neither he nor Bram Stoker have any idea the kind of kitsch the rest of us 21st century folk are subjected to on their account.
As far as possible, this post is Sighişoara, birth place of Vlad Ţepeş, sans kitsch.
You're welcome.