Planes, trains and automobiles

A post in which I load numerous unattractive photos, describe our utter and profound exhaustion and dissuade anyone from ever wanting to come visit us.

People tell us all the time that they'll come see us in Romania but I can count on one hand the number of folks who have followed through on that promise.
Generally it's less by design and more by accident when we get visitors, e.g. people who are already on holiday in Italy and they figure it's not too big of a deal to meet up with us in Romania.
But to start from California and make the 24+ hour trip, that's a feat reserved for the intrepid few and by that I mean my parents who really only undertake such an exhausting journey in order to see their grandchildren.
I get why people would hesitate to do it. I really do. For one thing, I complain about the arduousness of the trip all.the.time. When I get going on the subject I'm a broken record.
But I'd like to point out that my complaining has much to do with the fact that I'm just plain burned out. After nearly 20 years, I'm sick of traveling the Santa Cruz-Obedin corridor.
However, at long last we've found friends foolish crazy adventurous enough to join us on the journey. Fortunately both Griffin and Logan are excellent and enthusiastic photographers and not only will I get a break from carrying my camera around but you all will get to view our adventures through their fresh, unjaded eyes.
At the moment, profoundly jet-lagged as we are, not much has been photographed but since some of you non-travel weary readers are already clamoring for a post, I am trying to oblige.
These uninspiring photos represent the sum of our adventures so far. They mainly consist of us dozing on various means of transportation. The highlight of the 13 hour SF to Istanbul flight was Mircea ordering beer with his meal.
The highlight of the 50 minute flight from Istanbul to Bucharest was Mihai and I accidentally getting put in business class, the result of which created such confusion that the flight was delayed 20 minutes until they figured out the haggard passengers lounging in row 7 were actually supposed to be in economy class row 16.
Other than the joy of seeing Vali when he drove us from the airport to the train station, there were no other highlights. There was just exhaustion until we got home and found a kitchen full of food and warm beds with clean sheets.
Never fear, it won't all be so mundane, there's more and better to come, the Rummel boys promise.

At last a meal at a table! Things are looking up already.

The Things They Carried

One evening while watching TV I saw an ad for Philadelphia cream cheese. Philadelphia brand, mind you, not some generic Romanian knock off. The real stuff. The same cream cheese we haul in and out of cars, trains and airports.
I jumped off the couch shouting "Oh no you didn't!" at the screen.

Thus, with one TV ad, ends our overpacking mania. A box or two of Ziplock bags? Sure. A container of ibuprofen? Yeah. But that's it. No more. Everything else we can get when we arrive.
I've seen the ad to prove it.

So say I.

The overpacking wasn't all for naught: with the extra luggage space we were able to bring home 5 bottles of Italian wine, 1 liter of honey, 2 liters of palincă, 3 bottles of homemade liquor, chocolates from various European countries, some jewelry and pottery from Italy.

However even the aforementioned items, heavy and numerous though they were, did not require the max allotment of luggage. The wine we could obtain in the States. "It's not the same thing" you protest. Oh no it's not. A leisurely stroll downtown to Zoccoli's is not at all the same as the drama of trying to find bubble wrap, pack and weigh 8 suitcases followed by unpacking and redistributing everything until you finally get it all properly proportioned, trying to find two taxis with trunks big enough to hold everything, watching the suitcases get tossed about during check-in, hoping the bottles don't break in transit and saturate all of your shoes and clothes with wine by the time you arrive in San Francisco (yeah, we've been through that before).

In short, we need to remember that it's not 1996 any longer. It's time to leave the cases of deodorant and power tools at home and enjoy the freedom of luggage that's light enough not to require strapping on a weight-belt to lift.

Along with the availability of Philadelphia cream cheese, there were a few other discoveries this time around.

We learned that Mircea can grow a beard.

We learned that there really is such a thing as too much of a good thing, even if that thing is Italian food.

We learned that Italian road safety is much like Romanian road safety. ("Sure it's ok to drive by, it hasn't exploded yet so you're probably safe.")

We learned that there are some "roads" our van simply cannot fit through. (Ok we actually learned that last time we were in Italy but we sort of forgot)

We learned that my phone takes horrible pictures and that I cannot be trusted to remember to bring the good camera with me to the meetings. Apparently I get so emotional and excited that all I can manage are photos of butts and the sides of noses. This was the cream of a very pathetic crop.

We learned that Romanian taxi drivers are versatile. (Or as I told my boys: this is what it means when you know how to hustle).

We learned that I still have to take the stairs to Vali and Simona's apartment on the 7th floor.

We learned that we have wonderful friends and that it doesn't matter how long we have, it's never enough time to be with them. (Ok that one we already knew).

We learned that going home to Romania is not the same without Pia there.

It was over too soon.

So we return, carrying extra pounds of fat on our bodies (all nicely distributed in flattering places of course), and souvenirs to give to beloved friends. Most of all we carry the memories of a lovely holiday and the warmth in our hearts that comes from once again being with those we love on the continent so far away.
Imi va fi dor.

Ne intoarcem

I know my last post was a bit of a downer.  But really, I wan't capable of anything upbeat.
I'm still teetering on the edge but trying to pull myself over.

Jet-lag, 30+ hours without sleep, culture shock, the exhaustion of modern day air travel, all of those things will take their toll.  Even without my own emakou.

From the list above, the only thing that took me by surprise was the culture shock.  Honestly, this is the country in which I was born and raised, how could being away for one year out of 40 render me unable to remember how to flush an American toilet?

I don't know but there I was, the first morning at my sister's house, standing and staring stupidly at the top of the tank looking for a button that wasn't there.

My first trip to the grocery store found me equally confused when faced with the task of figuring out how to pay cash for the items I had chosen.  Items I haven't seen in a year such as sliced bread, avocados and maybe even a box of transfats with the Hostess trademark on it.  (Oh yeah, I did it.)

But the money.  Well, it's all green, it's all the same size and the sums are so oddly small: twenty four ninety-nine? What kind of a total is that?  And how do you make that from a hand full of monochromatic paper?  I fumbled about, sweating and looking sheepish for so long that it's no wonder the cashier held up the bills to the light to check for counterfeit cash.

While I bungled and fretted, the bagger asked the quintessential American question: "Did you find everything alright?"

And I replied in surprise: "Oh, you speak English!"

So that I don't appear completely retarded may I now include the fact that I can hear nothing out of my left ear since landing in JFK.  The result of flying with a cold.  That alone can make a person behave somewhat aberrantly, right? Say it's so.

And speaking of air travel; shall we commence with our latest tale of adventure and woe?

Whenever we fly I swear to myself that the next time we take a plane, I will make certain we are streamlined but it just doesn’t seem to happen.  

For this trip we had four laptops and a Wii in our carry on.  Most rational people would understand straight off that in this post 9/11 world, this is a bad idea. We knew it was a bad idea but there wasn’t much we could do except suck it up and accept the fact that we were going to be pulled out of line at every security check.

And between Bucharest and Florida there were three such gauntlets through which we had to pass.

Bucharest doesn't really count since I could probably put a bag of fireworks, a six pack of beer and a gallon of bleach in my purse and get on the plane with it.  Every time I ask the airport employees if they'd like me to remove something suspicious from my luggage they wave a hand laconically and say "Just keep moving".

London is, as you can imagine, a different kettle of fish altogether.  They've seen a fair amount of violence in the past few years so security is a bit less complacent.

However, when I was pulled out of line they were so polite about it that I felt as if I were being invited to tea. Before the security guy began to go through my carry-on, he actually asked permission.  

One by one the items were examined and all was well until he pulled out this:

Will you cringe if I tell you that the first thing that came out of my mouth was:  "That's not mine."

The second thing was: "I'm just transporting that for a friend."

Bravo to the British security official, he didn't over-react in the least.  He merely looked at me with an expression that said "Please ma'am, it's been a long day and if this turns out to be what it looks like, I'm going to be stuck here for hours and I'll end up missing the game and the pot roast my wife has in the oven will be cold by the time I get to eat it." 

So I said, "Um, that is...a bag of...herbs."

He opened the bag, took a sniff, eyed me dubiously, took another sniff and then concluded "These are herbs for cooking."

"Yes." and then he politely indulged my nervous babble as I explained what an excellent cook my friend is and all about the lovely home she has in Vaideeni where she grows said herbs.

He waved me through with a relief he could not disguise.

Last was JFK.

Ah, New York, we meet again.
No courtesy and polite manners here, just eye rolling and sarcasm and unclear, contradicting sets of instructions from the short-tempered TSA employees.  Broken elevators, a $5.00 baggage cart rental fee and $200.00 to transport our bags down to Florida.

Good-bye Europe.

Welcome to America.

Departure

This is harder than I expected.  And I expected it to be hard.

I don't mean the packing and the traveling, although that's a nightmare, no doubt about it.

And I don't mean just saying good-bye to all of the things that I love here: the clippity clop of horses' hooves as the wagons go by in the morning.  The soft, melodious clang of the cow bells as they are brought in from the fields in the evening.  Fresh picked cherries in the summer.

I mean leaving people.  Because it always comes down to the people.

I mean that moment when you are hanging out, Skyping with the half of your family in the States and it strikes you that the next time you all Skype, you will not be in the same room but on the other side of the camera.
On the other side of the world.
The rich tones of the voices in the room with you will be replaced by tinny sounds as their words are transferred across the thousands of miles.
Instead of reaching out to put an arm around their shoulders, you will hold up a hand and place it against the screen and have only the memory of the warmth of their touch.

Remembering the surge of joy when you embraced at the train station upon your arrival.
"A whole year."
"Yes."
The world seemed bright with possibilities.

Now the moment of separation hangs in the air like a malevolent specter.  It's coming, that agonizing point when you must look each other in the eye and say your parting words which will seem weak and ineffectual, unable to express all that is in your heart.  The last, tight squeeze and whispered "good-bye", full of a particular brand of desperate sorrow.
The chimerical notion that people so dear will soon be so far away.
The continent of Europe, the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean and the swath of North America.  All of that will lay between you.
Distanta este mare.

Heart break.  Pure and simple.

Imi va fi dor

Oops.  Winter isn't quite done with us yet.  (those are snowflakes falling in the background)

Anyway, a few things occurred to me
and one is,
I think I'm going to miss this:

Fresh milk delivered twice a week

And for sure I'm going to miss this:

My morning writing area.  Just me, coffee and the rising sun.

The spot itself is lovely but what I'll really miss is the free time I have been afforded here.  Don't worry, I have wasted it to the full by producing nothing useful.  Just a silly blog and a fat roll around my middle.

When I return to the States I'm apparently expected to re-engage in "Life: as brought to you by The Western World", the prospect of which fills me with an overwhelming desire to crawl back into bed and sleep.

Laundry List

This morning I opened the back door and smelled spring.

That means one thing: I can hang laundry on the line again.

No wait, it means something else as well: our time here is drawing to a close.

Spring 2012.  That's what we said when we were taping and misspelling the labels on those boxes back in Dec 2010. It seemed so impossibly far away.  And even when we tossed the couches and gave away the television there were still those who were thinking privately "they'll never do it."

Ha.  Told ya we would.

But getting back to that laundry... I really did hang it out on the line.  

Aside from the fact that I love how clothes and sheets smell after blowing in the spring air (March 1 is considered to be the first day of spring here, folks, quit mentally lecturing me about that thing called the vernal equinox), there is another benefit.  The upstairs office area no longer looks like our luggage projectile vomited all over the railings. I was getting really tired of that look.

And Luci made this cake from scratch entirely by himself.  I was otherwise occupied.  Nice to know the kids are doing something productive while I'm away.  

Which has nothing to do with anything except to say that this is the sort of stuff we're doing around here lately.  Just kind of drifting along while being teased with the hint of seasons changing and realizing that the time to leave is drawing neigh. 

Which means it's time to get the boxes out again and start packing up.  

There's a lot to do between now and then.  The longer the list, the greater the chance I will spend my time doing unproductive things on the internet and reading books I've read a hundred times already.  Anything to keep myself from packing. 

Groan.

Recovery

For the most part I have been trying to post things related to our travels or things related to life in a small Romanian village.  I try not to go on personal tangents about bad foreign policy or the oft-idiotic mainstream media coverage of natural disasters and civil strife in developing countries.  I try to keep it focused.

I suppose this post is about travel in a round about way;  the business of post-travel recovery and the resettling of ourselves into our tiny Romanian village.

See, holidays are not my thing so I can't really appreciate what most of America and the West goes through on January 2nd. I don't understand the let-down and the bewildering feelings of "what do I do now?" and "how do I stop single-handedly consuming the caloric intake of small southeast asian country?"
Except I kind of do.  Because I have the post-travel blahs.
From what I hear, these sound an awful lot like the post-holiday blahs.  Maybe it's just something to do with the season, I don't know.  But no matter how sternly I lecture myself on how I'm going to start eating well and going for long walks instead of napping in the afternoon, all I manage to do is sit around in my fat pants and lament over how the floors need to be vacuumed.

This was my dinner. I won't say for how many nights in a row.

You think I made this up just for the blog.  No.  I really ate this for dinner.
It's an unappetizing cornucopia, spotlighting some of the worst foods the world has to offer: the peanut butter we shipped from the States, the Pringles (paprika flavor if you notice) we bought in Austria.
I don't even know where that candy bar came from, I'm guessing someone dropped by during the holidays and left it here for the boys but I saw it first so it's mine.
At least the pickles were fresh from the market in Budapest.  As is the palinka.
You know what's really sad, I don't even like Pringles.

But that probably explains why this is all I can fit into these days:

When it gets warm enough I remove the sweater and change the shoes:

See how I photographed it like they do in fashion magazines to try and make it look less pathetic.  Also, as unflattering as it all looks on the floor, it's even worse on me.  Really.

Tell me you all go through this in one way or another in your lives.

I know, it's January 27th and I need to snap out of it already.  Because you all have, right?  After you read this you'll head out to the gym or walk yourselves into the kitchen to consume that head of organic broccoli you bought because you know its good for you and you know you're supposed to eat things like that.

And I'm going to do that too.  Because we've had snowfall and it's a glorious winter wonderland out there and I need to go photograph it so that I can have something decent to post for you all.  Because I feel badly about this.  So badly that I think I need another candy bar and a spoonful of peanut butter as a chaser.  Then I'm going to go pull on my Ugg-knock offs and find Mihai because we've got another trip to plan.

Cruising

Warning: the events detailed in the following posts are not necessarily presented in chronological order.  The writer of this blog is not responsible for any confusion this may cause the reader.

In May of 2010 we sent Pia and Silviu on a cruise of the western Mediterranean.  Unsurprisingly, they loved it.  As soon as possible they wanted to go again, this time with us.
In the meantime Mihai and I were trying to figure out the best method for transporting ourselves to Turkey and in the middle of one driving-versus-flying debate someone suggested an eastern Mediterranean cruise.  Herein seemed to lie the solution to everything.
Except I've never really pictured myself as a cruise sort of person.  Ladies who order rhinestone covered sandals off QVC are cruise people.  College-age Americans who drink themselves into embarrassing stupors at each port and crawl back on board like feckless reprobates are cruise people. None of my footwear sparkles and I disapprove of public inebriation so what business did I have taking a cruise I wondered?
I have friends who have cruised before and they tried to disabuse me of my misconceptions by pointing out that there is far more to it than wearing sequined garments and vomiting in trash cans.  "They've got basketball courts and arcades for the kids." they assured me. "There's a theater on board." and then the clincher:  "There's an all-you-can-eat buffet."
Mihai was sold, the kids were sold, and I was left to battle it out with that relentless affliction of mine: claustrophobia.
Who remembers watching The Love Boat back in the early 80s?  I recall some wizened adult looking over my shoulder at the TV screen and commenting "Cruise cabins aren't like that at all.  They're the size of match boxes and they stick you in the hull." For the past 30 years those words have been stuck in my brain and once Mihai actually paid for the tickets I started losing sleep over them.  I checked to see how much diazepam I have left in my panic-attack stash (turns out it expired two years ago but I still use them-I think the correct term for this is the placebo effect).
I considered going to the doctor to get a prescription for few preloaded syringes of lorazepam, 1.0-2.0 mg each which I could carry around with me and inject as needed like diabetics do with insulin.  Or something like an epi-pen only instead of a bee sting it would be the sight of the sleeping quarters that would send me into shock.
I wondered if worse came to worse if I would be allowed to sleep somewhere on the deck or if I would have to hide myself under a tarp like a stowaway.
On our last night in Rome I was tormented by images of dark, airless holes and kept sticking my head out of the bathroom window to suck in air as if I could somehow store it for the next six days.
Then we got on board and I saw the room.  A window.  Above sea level.  A bathroom almost as big as the one we use upstairs in Obedin.

Did I feel stupid?  Yes.
Having an irrational fear of something is really a drag.

I found out my friends really weren't exaggerating: there is a basketball court and a movie theater as well as miniature golf, pools, jacuzzis and a running track which, had I known I would have brought my running gear so I could have used it.  Its been far too long since I've broken a sweat over anything other than worrying over sleeping in small spaces.

Since I had no running shoes the only thing left to exercise was my brain so I spent most of my free time in the library where I ended up meeting a lot of nice people who were neither binge drinking nor wearing anything that sparkled.  It ended up being my favorite part of the ship (Luci joined me when the card rooms got too full of "old people playing mahjong")

Second favorite place: the dining room.  Mostly for the unexpected pleasure of meeting yet more very nice people who work on board: Indians, Filipinos, Turks and, lo and behold, Romanians which was actually very cool since one of them was our waiter.  What are the odds?  (actually there are a lot of Romanians working on cruises so the odds are not bad at all that we would meet a few but I didn't know that beforehand)

The dining room was awesome except for the fact that it aways made me feel like I was dressed like an unmade bed.  Guess I should have packed with greater care or paid more attention to The Love Boat.

 A few views of the boat.  Population and square footage-wise I think it's bigger than Obedin.

Views from the deck.

Needless to say, I can see why my in-laws were so thrilled the first time around.

From there to here...

From there to here and here to there, funny things are everywhere...
-Dr. Seuss

When we left Santa Cruz a lot of people said they would really like to come and visit us and probably just as many thought, (but did not say aloud) "Why in the world would I want to go to Romania?"
I get it.
For those in both camps, I offer the following post:

What does it take to get here exactly?  

There are no direct flights from the States into Romania.  Don't waste your time trying to find one.  So you have to fly into one major European city and from there catch another short flight into Bucharest.  Flying overseas (particularly if you start from the west coast of the North American continent) is no small feat. That alone will leave you fuzzy-headed and dehydrated at best.  But plenty of people do it for the joy of seeing Paris or London so I've not got much sympathy.  Suck it up, folks, that's life.

But here's an idea: don't pick a city in Europe that you have any interest in whatsoever.  Cause then you'll be tempted to make your lay over long enough to "go out and explore".  This will be about as successful as arriving at a Japanese opera half way through the performance while you are drunk and recovering from a bout of dysentery. You will enjoy the experience even less than you will comprehend it.  Just sit and doze at the gate until its time to board.
Wherever you chose, however, just know that the flight will be faster than the drive from the airport to our house. Think of us as living among a remote tribe in the Amazon basin, you know, those places where anthropologists go and National Geographic photographers follow.  Well...think of it more like a remote tribe where they're all dressed in t-shirts with English slogans or ads for American corporations and where plastic soda bottles litter the roadways. In any case, you'll feel like you're driving into the middle of nowhere.

And just when you think the drive can't possibly be any longer or more torturous, there will be another hour to go. But eventually it will end.  It will.  And then you'll be in Obedin and you can sleep.  Or you'll be in Transylvania and you can sleep.  Either way, you'll be too tired to pay much attention to anything until the morning.  And then the experience can begin.

You might wake up in Buşteni, Transylvania

with this view from your hotel window

We might bring you coffee in bed (or we might just take this photo from what appears to be a Folgers commercial)

 One thing will be certain: you will be wiped out. (although my son did not just travel across the Atlantic so I have no idea what his excuse is.)

But we will provide you with plenty of caffeinated drinks (or decaf if you are so inclined)

 You will drive (a lot).  On windy roads.  (You might even vomit when you arrive at a certain castle of a certain famous person belonging to the undead but don't worry, if you buy a souvenier from the vomited-on vendor, they will forgive you anything.)
But you'll get to see the Carpathian Mountains

You will see lots of horses and wagons.  Some appropriately located off the road like this:

others, not so much:
(and yes, these are our highways)

(he's off the road now but he'll be pulling on in just a minute and probably right in front of an 18-wheeler)

You will see random old stuff

and gypsies selling copper stills on the side of the road...

or just walking around town

you will see other Romanians selling stuff on the side of the road...

we might even stop to buy some ingredients for dinner and you can be proud of buying "locally grown and sourced" without having to wait in lines at Staff of Life (see Toamna post for up close photos of the produce)

and we will be happy that you came.

Hopefully by the end, you will too

Thanks, Sharon, Kelly and Todd for being brave enough to come!