Ciprian is always making the breakfast when I go downstairs to make my own breakfast in the morning - boiling the water for tea or putting pink salami slices on buttered bread. Breakfast is when Ciprian and I get our business done because his work schedule is irregular and sometimes I only see him in the morning.
What business do I have with Ciprian? Well, without him, I would have to travel to a nearby town to pay for electricity, would not know as much as I do about the orthodox church, and would not have wood for the winter.
Last fall, soon after arriving in my village, I purchased three horse carts of wood through Ciprian. He spent a couple days in August chopping the wood into stove-sized pieces (the size of fat dictionary) and I carted and stacked the wood.
Apparently, August is a little late to buy wood for the next year. Beginning in March I would be walking by my neighbor's yards and see logs piled into their yards, awaiting chopping.
"So when will we buy our wood?" I asked my breakfast conversationalist one morning.
"In May."
May is here and for the last week Ciprian and his father-in-law have been going up to the mountains for wood. Last night, just as it was getting dark, a monstrous truck crept up our road with an equally monstrous pule of logs in the back. Cipri and I were playing soccer in the front yard and watched the truck inch its way up the road, taking out the occasional cable line stretched across the telephone poles.
The truck drove to the back of the house and stopped. The driver moved from his cab to a rotating chair in the back of the truck from which he operated a skill crane with a monstrously sized claw. The claw would pick up 2 or 3 logs, lift them over the fence and deposit them in a pile in the yard. Cipri and I climbed a nearby apple tree and watched the whole process, Ciprian yelling instructions over the noise of the crane, the huge logs being treated like stuffed animals in a machine at the exit doors of wal-mart.
So I have my wood for winter! in log form at least.
Skip to a couple days ago at breakfast.
"You will need to find someone to chop the wood for you," Ciprian announces. "I won't have time next week." He mentions the closest male volunteer, "he could come chop it for a day."
I audibly laugh. "I'm not sure he knows how to chop wood," I tell Ciprian while I imagine this keyboard-playing, yoga-doing volunteer with an ax.
"Or you could just invite a bunch of peace corps volunteers for a barbecue and wood chopping party," he suggests.
I imagine several other peace corps volunteers who live in this general area with axes and chuckle.
"Or you could just pay someone to chop it for you."
"What if I chopped it?"
Now Ciprian guffaws. "It's very hard work and you don't know how."
"Point taken. But still, I've always wanted to learn how."
As of now, I'm still not sure how my wood is going to go from log-form to fat dictionary size, but I still want to try to chop it myself. You will be updated.
5.15.2009
5.07.2009
ping pong
Besides my interaction with my host family, I don't spend much time with my students outside of school. Classroom management is a daily struggle and dressing up, hanging out with other teachers, and otherwise appearing professional was my classroom management plan of action for the first several months of teaching.
I am now beginning to feel comfortable enough to "hang out" with students in the non-educational sense of the word.
Right now "hanging out" is taking on the form of ping pong. Florin and Sandu, 5th grade twins, live near me and the day they learned sports vocabulary in english class with me they began to invite me to play ping pong with them.
"Teacher, avem un masa de tennis afara. Va-asteptam pentru tine!"
"Teacher, we have a tennis table outside. We will wait for you to come!"
(um, so their english is slow in the coming. At least they used the word teacher.)
"OK." I told them. And so I found where they lived and they were so excited to see me at their house and they offered me carbonated water while pulling the slightly warped, dusty ping pong table out from the barn.
Florin, just eager that I am there; Sandu, always the more skeptical one, putting every ounce of his body into beating me.
When an hour has passed and I tell them I have to leave, they look at me in disbelief that I would leave so early...
"Mai vin" (I'll come again). I reassure them.
And I have come back to play, several times. And now other 5th graders show up and since I'm in my twenties and generally speaking have better coordination than they do, I almost always win and it's a big deal when one of them beats me.
Thank goodness for all those hours in the hanger in the Philippines, being beaten at ping pong by my brothers. Who knew it would come in handy.
I am now beginning to feel comfortable enough to "hang out" with students in the non-educational sense of the word.
Right now "hanging out" is taking on the form of ping pong. Florin and Sandu, 5th grade twins, live near me and the day they learned sports vocabulary in english class with me they began to invite me to play ping pong with them.
"Teacher, avem un masa de tennis afara. Va-asteptam pentru tine!"
"Teacher, we have a tennis table outside. We will wait for you to come!"
(um, so their english is slow in the coming. At least they used the word teacher.)
"OK." I told them. And so I found where they lived and they were so excited to see me at their house and they offered me carbonated water while pulling the slightly warped, dusty ping pong table out from the barn.
Florin, just eager that I am there; Sandu, always the more skeptical one, putting every ounce of his body into beating me.
When an hour has passed and I tell them I have to leave, they look at me in disbelief that I would leave so early...
"Mai vin" (I'll come again). I reassure them.
And I have come back to play, several times. And now other 5th graders show up and since I'm in my twenties and generally speaking have better coordination than they do, I almost always win and it's a big deal when one of them beats me.
Thank goodness for all those hours in the hanger in the Philippines, being beaten at ping pong by my brothers. Who knew it would come in handy.
5.05.2009
stories
I like my you-tube, internet-streaming, mp3, google world. It took me 6 months to become used to not having it at my fingertips. I have been reading lately - a lot. Something I haven't done in a while. And it has reminded me of how much I enjoy a main character unfolding before my imagination, the way seeing words like crisp, uttered and blowing make me happy...
When I was 12 and 13, I devoured Don Quixote, followed by Anna Karenina, after which I read at least 4 Dickens books whose snivelling, poor, dirty, brave, cowering characters created their own rooms in my mind. Those rooms are now covered in dust and cramped by Madam Flaubert, Barnabas, Sylvia Plath's Esther Greenwood...
So I like stories. And I've been wondering where the "written word" stands these days. Could it ever be eroded into sand by cyberspace? (Yes. I actually do wonder this.) Milan Kundera, in his book Immortality kind of gave me my answer. And since I'm sure you are all as equally interested in the fate of novels, you too get to read what he wrote.
“ If a person is still crazy enough to write novels these days, he has to write them in such a way that they cannot be adapted, in other words, in such a way that they cannot be retold […]
“[…]I regret that almost all novels ever written are much too obedient to the rules of unity of action. What I mean to say is that at their core is one single chain of causally related acts and events. These novels are like a narrow street along which someone drives his characters with a whip. Dramatic tension is the real curse of the novel, because it transforms everything, even the most beautiful pages, even the most surprising scenes and observations merely into steps leading to the final resolution, in which the meaning of everything that preceded it is concentrated. The novel is consumed in the fire of its own tension like a bale of straw.
“[…]Do you think that everything that is not a mad chase after a final resolution is a bore? As you eat this wonderful duck, are you bored? Are you rushing towards a goal? On the contrary, you want the duck to enter into you as slowly as possible and you never want its taste to end. A novel shouldn’t be like a bicycle race but a feast of many courses.” (266).
4.30.2009
Stefan's fate
On Sunday, Stefan, my host families baby, turned 1 year old.
Over the last 9 months, I have seen Stefan grow from a crying, sleeping, eating infant into a fast-crawling, 4-toothed plant eater. He thinks I'm the bomb-diggity and when he hears my voice in the house, he crawls to wherever I am and then tugs on my legs with tears in his eyes until I pick him up. Then his mouth turns into this huge grin and he rubs his runny nose and slobbery mouth all over my cheek. Gabi says he's kissing me, I think he's trying to eat me.
For his first birthday, all his 5 godparents, and me, where invited over for dinner. Stefan was enraptured by the giant clown that sang and the mini-car and tricycle he received, among a plethora of other gifts.
Throughout the dinner, the godparents would fall back to the conversation of what Stefan would choose. I acted like I knew what they were talking about the first couple times and then finally asked, "What do you mean, what will Stefan choose?"
"The first three things Stefan chooses will tell us what his future is," they laugh. Still not entirely understanding, I decided to wait and see what they were talking.
Before the cake was served , someone got a platter and everyone began to put items onto the platter: a french-romanian dictionary, a pen, a hair brush, a cell phone, car keys, a notebook, and more. Then they placed the platter in front of Stefan.
Ah. I realized. So he picks things from a platter and from that they can "tell" what his future is.
Stefan dove in with both hands and emerged with the cell phone and the car keys. "So greedy" the godparents laughed. "One more thing."
The third item Stefan chose was the hairbrush.
What is Stefan's fate, then? Well, after good-hearted discussion the godparents came up with the consensus that Stefan will be shmecher, a word that you would use to describe a person who is witty or crafty, but does not always have positive connotations. Stefan will be a man who is always looking fine (the hairbrush), always on his phone, and driving a fancy car.
This is just a tradition and Gabi told me that she does not actually plan on this being Stefan's fate. We will see.
Over the last 9 months, I have seen Stefan grow from a crying, sleeping, eating infant into a fast-crawling, 4-toothed plant eater. He thinks I'm the bomb-diggity and when he hears my voice in the house, he crawls to wherever I am and then tugs on my legs with tears in his eyes until I pick him up. Then his mouth turns into this huge grin and he rubs his runny nose and slobbery mouth all over my cheek. Gabi says he's kissing me, I think he's trying to eat me.
For his first birthday, all his 5 godparents, and me, where invited over for dinner. Stefan was enraptured by the giant clown that sang and the mini-car and tricycle he received, among a plethora of other gifts.
Throughout the dinner, the godparents would fall back to the conversation of what Stefan would choose. I acted like I knew what they were talking about the first couple times and then finally asked, "What do you mean, what will Stefan choose?"
"The first three things Stefan chooses will tell us what his future is," they laugh. Still not entirely understanding, I decided to wait and see what they were talking.
Before the cake was served , someone got a platter and everyone began to put items onto the platter: a french-romanian dictionary, a pen, a hair brush, a cell phone, car keys, a notebook, and more. Then they placed the platter in front of Stefan.
Ah. I realized. So he picks things from a platter and from that they can "tell" what his future is.
Stefan dove in with both hands and emerged with the cell phone and the car keys. "So greedy" the godparents laughed. "One more thing."
The third item Stefan chose was the hairbrush.
What is Stefan's fate, then? Well, after good-hearted discussion the godparents came up with the consensus that Stefan will be shmecher, a word that you would use to describe a person who is witty or crafty, but does not always have positive connotations. Stefan will be a man who is always looking fine (the hairbrush), always on his phone, and driving a fancy car.
This is just a tradition and Gabi told me that she does not actually plan on this being Stefan's fate. We will see.
The shmecher making faces
4.25.2009
i enjoy my life
So for Easter/Spring break, me and 5 other volunteers decided to explore Ukraine which is actually only a couple hours north of me. The focal point of the Spring Break was a visit to Chernobyl, where the nuclear accident occurred 23 years ago. The day ended up being rainy, windy and dismal, a fitting backdrop to the emptiness that is Chernobyl and the town most affected by the accident, Pripyat. One of the volunteers on the trip is a photographer and his pictures express the experience, the place, far better than my words can.
Following the whirlwind of the trip in Ukraine, we returned to a Romania geared up for the Orthodox Easter, arguably the most important holiday in Romania. The festivities began at 1 o'clock in the morning when everyone walks around the church three times with a candle, following the priest. The faithful few remained at church all night while the rest of us went home and slept until 5 in the morning when we returned to church with baskets of eggs and bread. Everyone stood in a huge circle outside the church and the priest walked around the circle and blessed the baskets.
Later Easter day, we were invited to a traditional ball where everyone was wearing traditional Romanian costumes (yes, including me) and we danced to traditional Bucovina music. Once again, my colleague, Zach, took pictures of the event and these pictures are all of people I know, my neighbors the roads I walk down every day.
Following the whirlwind of the trip in Ukraine, we returned to a Romania geared up for the Orthodox Easter, arguably the most important holiday in Romania. The festivities began at 1 o'clock in the morning when everyone walks around the church three times with a candle, following the priest. The faithful few remained at church all night while the rest of us went home and slept until 5 in the morning when we returned to church with baskets of eggs and bread. Everyone stood in a huge circle outside the church and the priest walked around the circle and blessed the baskets.
Later Easter day, we were invited to a traditional ball where everyone was wearing traditional Romanian costumes (yes, including me) and we danced to traditional Bucovina music. Once again, my colleague, Zach, took pictures of the event and these pictures are all of people I know, my neighbors the roads I walk down every day.
4.24.2009
hristos a inviat
The orthodox easter was on Sunday. And from 5 o'clock Sunday morning people started saying to me, "hristos a inviat" (Christ is risen).
The first time this happened to me at 5:30 I replied in a half-asleep voice, "Buna dimineatza" (good morning).
"No, no," he told me. "You must reply 'Adevarat a inviat'" (indeed he has risen).
"Oh. Adevarat a inviat."
"And you don't say buna dimineatza for the next six weeks."
"What?" My half asleep mind is struggling to understand why I can't say good morning for six weeks.
"You say 'hristos a inviat' for 6 weeks until we celebrate when the apostles spoke in tongues."
I am on the first of the six weeks and he was right. Every morning at school I am greeted by a chorus of my students and colleagues saying, "hristos a inviat" and I reply "adevarat a inviat."
Not actually being orthodox, I struggle to say this pronouncement every morning. But it is such a part of their culture...the religion and the culture are so entwined that I find it impossible to extricate one from the other.
"Adevarat a inviat"
The first time this happened to me at 5:30 I replied in a half-asleep voice, "Buna dimineatza" (good morning).
"No, no," he told me. "You must reply 'Adevarat a inviat'" (indeed he has risen).
"Oh. Adevarat a inviat."
"And you don't say buna dimineatza for the next six weeks."
"What?" My half asleep mind is struggling to understand why I can't say good morning for six weeks.
"You say 'hristos a inviat' for 6 weeks until we celebrate when the apostles spoke in tongues."
I am on the first of the six weeks and he was right. Every morning at school I am greeted by a chorus of my students and colleagues saying, "hristos a inviat" and I reply "adevarat a inviat."
Not actually being orthodox, I struggle to say this pronouncement every morning. But it is such a part of their culture...the religion and the culture are so entwined that I find it impossible to extricate one from the other.
"Adevarat a inviat"
4.10.2009
chernobyl 09
This next week is saptamana mare (literally, big week) which is the week before the eastern orthodox.
I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the easter celebration here is bigger than Christmas. For the last couple weeks everyone has pulled their rugs out of their homes and beat them and scrubbed them and polished their windows, washed their curtains, scrubbed their floors...for saptamana mare all my fellow teachers will be making cakes and cookies and butchering lambs and coloring eggs.
While all these work is going on in my village, I decided to take a break from Romania for a week and head to the Ukraine. And yes, while I am there I will take a tour of Chernobyl.
Romania doesn't feel like a foreign country to me anymore so traveling around a place that has a completely different alphabet and language will make me a tourist, which is a good thing.
Ukraine ho.
I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the easter celebration here is bigger than Christmas. For the last couple weeks everyone has pulled their rugs out of their homes and beat them and scrubbed them and polished their windows, washed their curtains, scrubbed their floors...for saptamana mare all my fellow teachers will be making cakes and cookies and butchering lambs and coloring eggs.
While all these work is going on in my village, I decided to take a break from Romania for a week and head to the Ukraine. And yes, while I am there I will take a tour of Chernobyl.
Romania doesn't feel like a foreign country to me anymore so traveling around a place that has a completely different alphabet and language will make me a tourist, which is a good thing.
Ukraine ho.
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