Seasons

The earth has music for those who listen.
                 - Shakespeare

I've lived in an area with four distinct seasons before.
I was younger then and apparently possessed more sebacious glands.

The cold air has made a wreck of my skin.

Around here, during the autumn and spring, you feel like you have a good relationship with the earth. As if you're friends, the kind that finish each other's sentences and show up to events wearing similar outfits without even planning to.
Then in the summer the mercury soars and things change.  You catch the earth sneaking up behind you with a knife in its hand.  Sure, it chuckles in that affable manner you thought you could trust.  It says, "I was just going to chop a few onions here."  heh heh.  You go back to what you were doing and try to forget about it.  It was nothing, just a hot spell.  No harm no foul.
Then winter comes.  The mercury plummets.  The earth no longer pretends to be Professor Xavier.  The retractable bone claws come out and take a swipe at you.
No more games here.  Now you know.  The earth is trying to kill you.
(but, like, Hugh Jackman, it looks so good while doing so)

Village Life part 9: Snow Days

During the last snowstorm the road into our village became impassable.  It was so bad that one afternoon the national roads were officially closed.  Which didn't stop people from driving on them.  I know cars were on the road because someone used one to hit our dog.  A car I mean.
The dog is fine which only served to reinforce in the driver's mind that he was not only completely justified in using roads that are closed but speeding on them as well.
Figures.
Walking around Obedin became even more hazardous than before which I had not thought possible.
In the end it was alright because the kids didn't have to venture out after all. THE SCHOOLS WERE CLOSED.
Oh glory.

How to spend all that free time...

if you scroll fast so it's like a movie

or not

Once again I've over done it with the photos.

I apologize.  (I type the words but my heart doesn't really feel the remorse).

You might recognize this house.  Or, if you're one of the readers who has a life (all of you I hope), you might not.
It's the house next door which is now technically ours since we apparently purchased it.  You'd think I would know more details about these major acquisitions but I don't.  

It's currently unihabited which makes it the perfect Snowball Fight Battle Ground.  I think eventually Maru and his family will move there which will make us neighbors.  I have only one request of him: no Euro Disco after midnight.  

Village Life part 8: When It Snows

I haven't referred to a Fred Armisen SNL skit in a long time. But that doesn't mean he isn't ever-present in my thoughts. (Ah, Mr. Armisen...may I call you Fred?)  Today's post brings us here: as a prelude.

Some people long for hustle and bustle.  Some folks love big cities with their lights and noise and the sense of excitement and importance that comes from a never-ending variety of things to do involving crowds and clamor.

You won't find me in that category.  A hurried, agitated life has never seemed remotely appealing. This might have more to do with being inherently, incurably lazy rather than the fact that I am an introvert.  I take no particular pride nor shame in this confession.  It is what it is.

But being an introvert means, rather than reacting with horror at the recent record-breaking amounts of snow-fall, I am overjoyed.  To be able to use the weather as an excuse to remain isolated from the rest of humankind feels like a benediction rather than a curse.  The snow is veritable manna.

I don't know how many introverts there are in Obedin.  Something tells me people around here have better things to think about than what en vogue personality type they belong to.  But introverts or extroverts, everyone eventually needs to get out and shovel their driveways clear.  Just as eventually I realized that if I am ever to rid myself of this 8 lbs of travel-acquired, food-overindulgence, I must get out of the house and move.

So we're back to walking through the village these days.  And everywhere we see the same ingredients for our visual stew: piles of snow, shovels, cold hands, sweaty brows.

This woman is 82. I dislike infantilizing the elderly. I know she can shovel that whole mess herself.  But should she have to?  Not while my fat roll is present, just begging for a little to be sweated away.

There were other ladies shoveling across the road and, for once, very few cars passing by.  About one every quarter of an hour.  I suppose that makes it as good a time as any to start talking about dead husbands and children. Sharing death stories in the cold quiet of a winter afternoon with our breath hanging in the air and the rhythmic scrape of shovel into snow.
Those are the times when you put your camera away and just listen.

Foanza was down the road a bit hanging out at the tractor factory, helping them clear their roof and yard.
Photographing on such a gray day is really difficult because the camera can't figure out where to focus.  But it didn't matter to Foanza, he wanted an action shot and wouldn't quit shoveling.  Not even when he was looking back over his shoulder to grin for the camera, throwing snow willy-nilly.

A professional photographer would have no problem with the monochromatic background.  But of course I'm not a professional by any stretch.  So I struggle.

But I love how the snow and sky act as a canvas for the fences and gates.  I have walked by these every day for a year and I've never noticed the colors in half of them until the snows came.

The snow has made the village new.  So I'm back to carrying my camera whenever we venture out.
I suppose the presence of the camera morphs me into someone foreign once more. People stop and stare as if seeing me for the first time.  "Doamna, pentru ce aveti aparatul de fotografiat?" Why do you have that camera? they ask.
"Ca sa pozez zapada." I am taking pictures of the snow I reply.  "Nu ninge unde locuisec." It doesn't snow where I live.
A quizzical tilt of the head.  "Zau?  Am crezut ca ninge in Italia."
Really?  I thought it snowed in Italy. 

Village Life part 7: Măru

Normally I am very industrious and hard-working, suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder.  Which means in California I do all of my own yard maintenance and house cleaning.  But here it's a different story.  This place is 10x larger than our place in Santa Cruz. No matter how much the disorganization of my in-laws stokes the flames of my OCD, they will never get it to burn hot enough to manage the enormity that is Villa Ionescu.

In the end it got the better of me but it wasn't for lack of obsessing trying.

So we hired Maru, he of the mad cow incident this past summer. *

As I might have mentioned before, employment opportunities around here aren't so plentiful.
Though he's never said it, I'm guessing that being our maintenance guy isn't Maru's first choice for a job but at least it's a pay check.  We do our best to make it as palatable as possible by supplying him with
food and libations while he chops wood and pours new concrete for the driveway and what not.  All in all, we spend a lot of time with Maru as he's either hanging out in the kitchen drinking coffee or we're hanging out with him in the snow trying to coax him into putting on a pair of warmer gloves.

Way back in October he threw a party for his baby daughter.  She was baptized in the Romanian Orthodox church and then apparently it's traditional to have a bit of a shin-dig afterward.  I think of it as a variation of the American baby shower but without the pink and blue froo-froo decorations.
A hard-core baby shower with beer.  The kind most American men would like to go to.  The kind where no one asks them to play 'guess-how-many-squares-of-toilet-paper-go-around-my-wife's-belly" while drinking fruit punch with orange slices.

It was kind of a big deal.  Half the village was invited so we felt very honored that we foreigners were invited as well.

If you read Linda's blog, you've seen her pictures (which were more plentiful) already.  As I said, this was way back in October but somehow I had lost track of where I'd downloaded our photos.  (Being snowed in really goes a long way toward helping you complete those long-procrastinated tasks.)

But I digress.

Here's the main star of the event, being held by her lovely mother who is as shy as her daughter is gregarious even at the age of 8 months (in October).

Foanza was there decked out in a suit.*  He looked pretty dapper and he knew it.  He wasn't timid about asking for some photographs either.  So where are these pictures?  Sadly, I have no idea but if it keeps snowing I might find them yet.

Also missing are photos of Maru but for that I have an explanation.  Maru wasn't there for most of the party. Because I know you're wondering I'll tell you why: he had to go all the way back into the city to buy cucumbers which someone had forgotten to purchase.
Mind you, there was already enough food to feed the entire village but obviously the menu had been firmly established beforehand and the party just could. not. take. place. unless there were cucumbers.
Oh how I love life's little universals!

As you can see, they pulled out all the stops.  Nary a pink streamer nor baby blue doily in sight.

This steaming cauldron of goodness could be smelled all the way down to the end of the village road.  It was so cold outside and this thing was bubbling and wafting the most delicious perfume of sarmale.
Sarmale is the national dish for celebrations.  We in the States would call them cabbage rolls though somehow the translation seems to fall flat and fails to do them justice.   (I don't know what purpose the upside down plates on the top of the pot served but I'm sure it was for something important)

This is Gheorghe with his most prized possession, his electric guitar.

I don't know which I love more: the fact that his expression and Luci's are almost identical or those fantastic shoes on the step behind them.  It was about 2 degrees outside, I never noticed anyone going barefoot so I assume the owner slipped into something more appropriate like a pair of thermal insulated snow boots.  

Like all parties everywhere, there was food, there were drinks, there was talking and laughter and hugging and music.
Deafening, ear-drum-rupturing music.
Across this country, at every restaurant, bar, baby shower or any place where people gather ostensibly to socialize (i.e: talk), you will invariably encounter music being pumped forth at a volume that is mind-numbing.
"What's with the music?" you'll ask.
"What?"
"This music, the music, why is it so loud?"
"What?"
It's the oddest thing.  Most everyone agrees that it impedes any sort of meaningful conversation and the genre that's playing is almost always one that most people don't even care for (Euro disco/Manele/American pop).  You don't even get to enjoy the experience of losing your hearing.  Yet there it is.  Blasting.
And there it was, present at Maru's party even if Maru wasn't.
We couldn't stay long enough to either see Maru or sample any cucumbers.  Our Budapest/Italy/cruise thing was commencing the next morning and we still hadn't finished packing.  So we had to leave the party early but the party didn't really leave us.
No, it followed us.  At least the music did.
Down the street.
Through the doors.
And the windows.
Upstairs.
While packing.  "Did you get the passports in the bag?"
"What?"
And through the night while we dreamed of fancy-cut cucumbers chewed to the beat of Euro disco.

*I included links to the pictures from previous posts so you can remember what they look like if you are so inclined.  I hope I'm not encouraging anyone to waste their time.  I wasted plenty of mine trying to figure out how to do this.

Paris Deux

It shames me to admit that I was reluctant to go to Paris (the sound you hear is the collective gasp of all Francophiles).

This reluctance was due to my swallowing the stereotype of the French as fashion, food and language snobs. Shameful, I know.  Normally I try to rise above these prejudices but in this case I foundered and sunk.
Susan and Rosalie bouyed me with their experiences but somewhere in the back of my mind I thought "well, those two ladies are so exceptionally beautiful and kind that not even the French can be mean to them."

But the boys had so few requests for our year: Time's Square, the Four Corners and the Eiffel Tower.  Three items. Could I deny them a third of their desires?  I couldn't.  Even if it meant risking the disapprobation of skinny French women sipping champagne.

Folks, not since Chicago have we encountered such friendly, warm, helpful, hospitable people.  We didn't have a single unpleasant encounter.  Not one.  Even the airport security woman who confiscated our bottles of wine was kind about it.  Nay, she was apologetic.  She even checked with her colleague to be sure there wasn't some loophole she could use to allow us to sneak it through (our fault for trying to obfuscate large amounts of liquid in a carry-on in this post-9/11 world.  Really, we know better).

Now to be fair, we have been treated very well throughout Europe.  And I don't mean to give the impression that I think locals are obligated to bow and scrape to tourists.  But it's refreshing to have someone stop and ask if you need assistance while you are standing on a street corner looking confused.
Mihai's French is quite good and most of the time we communicated in French but people always offered to use English if we preferred.  No eye rolling or indignant huffing about it.  So much for my preconceived prejudices. (Hey, at least I own up to it)

I expected to get many more photos.  But frankly, it was cold.  Doesn't it look cold in these pictures? Yeah. And it was. By now everyone is aware of the record low temps across Europe and there we were, trying to sight-see in the midst of it.
So we didn't really sight-see so much as we scurried from restaurant to museum to cafe to shop seeking sanctuary from the bitter wind.
The few times we paused to get photos I could only manage about 2 or 3 before my hands grew so stiff and pained that I couldn't focus the lense.

But we got to the Eiffel Tower where we stood in the painfully bitter cold of dusk and waited to to buy tickets to go to the top.  Once we were up at the top we were so cold we didn't care at all, we just wanted to get back down and go to the restaurant where we'd planned to have crepes.
That kind of sums up our sight-seeing experience.

We also managed to make it to Notre Dame.
As I stood looking at the cathedral my thoughts took me back to days long past when Abra and I endlessly discussed the tragedy of Esmeralda and Quasimodo and the villainy of Frollo and Phoebus.  How I wished Abra was with me, as we'd so often dreamed in our youth.

And we visited the Louvre.  You might say, "of course" but let me tell you that we didn't do the Uffizi in Florence so don't put it past the Ionescus to miss out on a major attraction.  Particularly if it comes down to a choice between eating and visiting said attraction.
Lucky for me the Louvre was warm and we were overly full.  Otherwise it would have been just another building I photographed from the outside.

As it was, I was amazed how liberally we were allowed to take photographs inside.
I love the faces Mihai found in the paintings.  Unfortunately I wasn't paying attention to what he was doing so I can't credit the artists.  I'm sure this is an unforgiveable faux pas but I'm posting them anyway because they bring warmth to my soul and I hope they do to yours also.

Other than eating, Mihai had only one desire in Paris and that was to visit this store and buy a copper pot.  Sadly, they were all monsterously heavy and we were daunted at the thought of trying to get it back to the States.  So we settled on a crepe pan for us and a potato dicer for Silviu.

Fortunately we had a decent view from our hotel.  I'm not normally a big fan of modern industrialism but I found myself photographing the buildings around us in both the light of the early morning and the evening.

The take home lesson is not "Indulge your children's every travel desire" but rather, "Don't believe everything you hear" and "Rise above your own inclinations to be unnerved by fashionable people who have well developed palates".
Also, "Use a little more prudence at the dinner table".
Because, in my effort to be less schleppy, I left my fat pants at home and guess what?  Not only can you not take bottles of wine on board a plane but you also can't use a giant safety pin to try and expand the space between the button and the button hole on your regular pants.  Airport security doesn't care how many servings of creme brule you ordered, the safety pin/needle/instrument of potential stabbing stays behind madame.
I think this little sculpture says it all.
Oh the indignity.