St. Patty's Day Message from Mom

Top of the mornin' to all you American born Peace Corps volunteers residing in Romania who have some Irish blood in them even though their last name may sound more like Russian, like say Matusick and who take a likin' to a good Irish band like,say one named The Town Pants which just so happens to be rolling into a small town in upstate New York round about tomorrow nite, a tad late for Saint Patty's Day, but better late than never. I'll be thinkin' of my green beer lovin', green blazer wearin', part green blood smilin' eyed son in a special way today. Love, Mom

Have a wonderful St. Patrick's Day everyone! I'm listening to The Town Pants right now!

Picture: St. Patty's Day at the Snooty Pig in Corning New York, 2008. The blazer, the beer, the music, the festivities, and the friends made for an incredible, memorable experience.

Nasul

The first time I stepped onto a train with my host in Petrosani I asked him, "don't we need a ticket?", he said, "shh nasul" with a smerk on his face.

This will be one of those stories about "a friend" that had yet another interesting cultural encounter involving transportation in Romania.

This "friend" had to take the night train from Petrosani to Bucharest. He had taken that particular train before. He was very accustomed to the train scheldule and how long it would take him to get to the train station, but still in his natural procrastinating, always rushing ways he decided to get a late start on packing, forcing him to basically have to run to the train station. As he was crossing the catwalk above the tracks he looked down to see that on this particular night his train happened to be on time and his phone told him that he only had one minute until it departs. There was no time to buy a ticket.

As the tired, obviously not Romanian, volunteer approached the cfr(train company) authorities he asked if it would be ok if he could buy the ticket on the train. They said "yes" of course and then told him the price was 61 lei. My friend was surprised. He had never paid over 50 lei for a ticket and he only had 51 lei in his wallet. He showed the authorities that he did not have 61 lei but they told him to board the train anyway. When the authorities came around to check tickets they told my friend to come out of the compartment. My friend gave the man all of his money, 51 lei, and the man said that it wasn't enough. He told my friend that it costs 68 lei. Naturally, my friend thought "is it 61 or 68 or even cheaper than 50 lei like I'm used to". After giving up his 50 lei my the man who took the money told my friend to tell anybody asking that he was going to Craiova instead of Bucharest.

It was hard to sleep for the first couple of hours on the train. He was nervous about the upcoming encounter where he would have to lie, wondering if it would even work. There is the chance that the last man just kept the money and my friend would be kicked off the train, or even worse, fined. It wasn't until after Craiova had passed when someone finally came in to check the tickets. That someone was a man that was not dressed in a proper uniform but he had two uniformed men behind him. He checked the tickets of the other men in the compartment and completely ignored my friend who was relieved after the encounter and could finally sleep.

Within an hour from Bucharest, almost there, and 4 old men enter my friends compartment. He knew that someone would be around to check their tickets. He looked out for someone to come, someone came, checked tickets, but this time my friend completely ignored the man checking the tickets. The man didn't press my friend too hard for the ticket as my friend pretended to be just waking up, posing as someone who has been on the train for a while and therefor his ticket doesn't need to be checked again. The act worked and my friend cruised in to Bucharest on the Arad-Constanta line.

"Nasul" means "The Godfather" in Romanian and when my host first said that on the train he was refering to corruption. My "friend" doesn't condone or approve of this kind of activity however this particular time he found himself in situations where "nasul" saved him.

Typing Practice

"But how, you might ask, does living outdoors on the terrace enable me to escape that other form of isolation, the solitary confinement of the mind? For there are the bad moments, or were, especially at the beginning of my life here, when I would sit down at the table for supper inside the housetrailer and discover with a sudden shock that I was alone. There was nobody, nobody at all, on the other side of the table. Aloneness become loneliness and the sensation was strong enough to remind me (how could I have forgotten?) that the one thing better than solitude, the only thing better than solitude, is society.

By society I do not mean the roar of city streets or the cultured and cultural talk of the schoolmen (reach for your revolver!) or human life in general. I mean the society of a friend or friends or a good, friendly women.

Strange as it might seem, I found that eating my supper out back made a difference. Inside the trailer, surrounded by the artifacture of America, I was reminded insistently of all that I had, for a season, left behind; the plywood walls and the dusty venetian blinds and the light bulbs and the smell of butane made me think of Albuquerque. By taking my meal outside by the burning juniper in the fireplace with more desert and mountains that I could explore in a lifetime open to view, I was invited to contemplate a far larger world, one which extends into a past and into a future without any limits known to the human kind. By taking off my shoes and digging my toes in the sand I made contact with that larger world- an exhilarating feeling which leads to equanimity. Certainly I was still by myself, so to speak- there were no other people around and there still are none- but in the midst of such a grand tableau it was impossible to give full and serious consideration to Albuquerque. All that is human melted with the sky and faded out beyond the mountains and I felt, as I feel- is it a paradox?- that a man can never find or need better companionship than that of himself."

pg. 121
Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness
Edward Abbey

Istanbul Round 1

I had to title this Istanbul Round 1 because I'm sure that there will be more Turkish fun to come.

A month has passed since I returned from my trip to Istanbul. I’ve had a month to come down off my high and take a realistic look at the trip as a whole. I would not consider myself a city person by any means but as soon as I returned from Istanbul I would have said that I plan on living there someday. Not only have I returned from the greatest city that I’ve ever visited but in the past month I have also returned from the high of such a great experience. Even though I can see myself living in Istanbul someday that vision is temporary and I know that I would much rather spend my later years in a much more quite place.

I have seen a recurring theme in my journals when I write about places I have visited. I travel to see places but what makes the trip an experience is the people that I see, meet, and travel with. This theme held true for Istanbul.

My original draw to Istanbul was it’s history. It is one of those cities that I’ve heard much about in global history courses with its unique location on two continents, owning the center of an ancient empire and major trade routes from Asia to Europe. These aspects give Istanbul a cultural importance that no other place on Earth can share. It was incredible standing under the dome of Haghia Sofia witnessing a clash of religions with Orthodox mosaics situated in between huge pendants depicting calligraphy of major Islamic prophets. Walking through the cisterns I couldn’t help but think about how people transported huge columns into the pit. The significance of the Medusa columns, whatever it was, looked me straight in the eye and very briefly turned me to stone. Looking back on my week these fascinations that I had before I went are pushed to the background when reflecting upon my experience.

The People

I had a wonderful opportunity to get to know some fellow Peace Corps volunteers that I have previously only briefly met. Each volunteer that I meet has a unique and interesting story. They bring different perspectives, ideas, and experiences to a conversation. Those volunteers that I spent some time to get to know in Istanbul have a year of Peace Corps experience over me, and they are about to move on to that next step in their lives. Not only did they story me about their pre-PC lives, but they also advised me by telling me about their PC experiences and entertained me with their hopes and fears for changes to come.

Those that I not only met but became friends with in Istanbul hold a special place in my memory and will be my draw back to the city. The barman that first served me a coffee, secondly, serenaded me with his musical talent, and thirdly, enjoyed the city with my group and I throughout the week. The girls that we fortunately met the first night allowing us enough time to see the city in a number of different lights. The Auzi that I shared several conversations with not only learning about her, but also finding a different perspective of turistic Istanbul day after day.

The strangers on the street. Men that remain nameless but did not fail to entertain me with their stories and their antics performed in great effort to get me to spend my money at their place. I learned from them importance of service and persistence. There was always someone that wanted to talk to me even if it was only because of the dollar signs they saw painted on me.

I went to Istanbul thinking that a week would be enough time, but now I realize that a time limit can be placed on a location and its landmarks but a time limit should never be placed on people and culture. I had only a taste of Istanbul and I plan to return for more. Walking back to the hostel after a day of adventuring site-mate said to me, “this is city is not like most cities, this city has a pulse”. Its that pulse, more than just landmarks that stand strong throughout the years, that will bring me back to Istanbul.

Botez

This weekend I attended a Romanian baptism(botez) for the 2nd time since I've been here. The baptism is one of those traditions that both Romanians and volunteers have told me not to pass up an invitation to.

First I attended the ceremony at noon. It was all that one would expect out of a baptism ceremony. There were family and friends present, priests praying, naked baby, and only a little bit of crying. It made me realize that I have never actually seen a baptism in the US, or maybe I just don't remember attending one. In a Romanian baptism the godparents have a very important role. They are the ones who bring the baby, hold it throughout the ceremony, dry it off, and cloth it after the dunking. The actual parents of the baby just sit back, watch, and take pictures as the ceremony progresses. Less than an hour later I was back at home waiting for the party to start and realizing that that was the first time I had been in a church in Petrosani.

The party was a blast.

I showed up there with my counterpart at about three and I left at at about ten. When I arrived I was greeted by the father of the baby, I congratulated the mother and presented her with a small gift for Tudor. My table was the furthest table from the family of the baby, but I sat with some people that I was relatively familiar with so I felt pretty welcomed. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was at the dancing table. As part of the dancing table I felt that it was my duty to get up and show off some moves, especially when the classic American medley came on. "Lets do the twist." I'll admit that I don't quite cut the rug on the dance floor but that was OK at this particular event because the father of the kids that I tutor happened to be the life of the party with his creative dance moves, loud yelling and whistling(he's Moldovan), and overall celebratory spirit. He's automatically invited to my wedding, whenever it may be. I am learning to love Romanian dance, and even some Romanian pop music. I can finally do the slowed down version of the sarba (when it speeds up I get lost) and I may like that more than my previous favorite, the Brasovanca.

One dance that really caught my eye, from the seat at my table, was this slowed down version of the sarba that included a towel and kissing. In the middle of the dance circle someone stands with a small towel. That person chooses one of the dancers and puts the towel around their neck to pull them to the center of the circle. The towel is then put on the ground, both people kneel down on the towel, and kiss each others cheeks. The person chosen before, now has the opportunity to choose someone. This all happens as people are dancing around them. It was fun to watch but suddenly I found myself being pulled in from my table which was conveniently located next to the dance floor. Tudor's mother decided to pull me in from outside the circle and include me in yet another traditional dance. I'm not one to enjoy being the center of attention but I got some kisses out of it.

The food was great. We started out with some appetizers which included a small plate with three different kinds of ham, salami, cheese, branza, and a tomato. Next came the fish which I haven't quite mastered how to eat yet, but I'm getting better. After the fish we waited a while until the ciorba came out. After more time on the dance floor the main course came out which included some chicken, pork, rice, cabbage salad, and mashed potatoes. By that time we had been eating and drinking with a lot of long dancing breaks for close to 8 hours. On my way out I was handed some cake to take home with me.

I had a great time throughout the whole experience. After two baptisms I have learned that it is a very big deal in Romania, it brings people together, everybody has a great time, there's lots of good food and drink, and dancing is a must. I left the party very happy for several reasons previously mentioned, but also because I spent my entire time there in the Romanian language. Though there was a lot dancing there was also a lot of speaking and I came out of the party with a sense of accomplishment after speaking so much in Romanian, being able to say all that I wanted to say, and being understood by my neighbors at my table.
La Multi Ani!

Happy New Year Serbia!

The New Years Eve celebration this year was an interesting one. I will briefly explain the excursion from my point of view. Later on, an official account will be released, one that attempts to compile all 5 versions of the 3 days in Belgrade, Serbia.
That's right, we decided to go to Belgrade, Serbia to welcome 2010. That is the same Belgrade that was bombed by the United States and NATO a little over a decade ago. Though there were a few Serbians that, when they found out we were Americans, couldn't help but mention the bombing, there were also very many Serbians that we met who were extremely friendly to us.

I would say that the trip officially began early in the morning of the 30th when all 5 brave volunteers came together in the "cold man bar." By the time that the last of the 5 showed up, the others had moved into the warm room and were playing the card game dubbed "Cizme" because the original name of the game, "Claim" was too hard to remember. After a short 5am run-in with a deliquent adolescent and a prostitute the group decided to move to the tracks to wait for their train. The train was on time but one of the 5 felt the need to rush to the wagon. In his hurry the volunteer stepped in one of the many potholes that pepper the common Romanian train-station asphalt spraining his ankle. This was the first casualty of the trip and it would haunt the volunteer the following day during his 3 hour repetitive hike around New Belgrade.
The Timisoara-Belgrade train ride was rather uneventful comprising of some naptime and some angry Serbian customs officials at the border. After getting off the train the 5 went on a search for the "too good to be true" hostel that they had previously booked for the busy New Year weekend. After 3 hours of walking, a creepy Serbian asking them to stay in his apartment, one bus stop, and a couple wine breaks, they learned that the hostel was in fact "too good to be true." At that point they went where any PC volunteer would go for a place to stay, the 5-star Continental Hotel.
Now that the group had a roof over their heads they all laid down and took a nice long nap. Later on that night they ate at a very nice, but not overly priced Italian restaurant where all but one ordered a 4 cheese pasta. After dinner they played some cards and got some much needed rest for the New Years Eve events the following day.
The day of New Years Eve was a busy one for the group. It was their day to see as much of Belgrade that they could before preparing for the night's events. Much time was spent at the large citadel that overlooked both the Sava and the Danube rivers. At the citadel the guys got their gun fix, climbing over the old tanks and anti-aircraft cannons that were on display. Next the group headed toward the center of town passing through the Bohemian district, eating a quick lunch, and getting rained on. They stopped at an impressively large McDonalds to get a coffee and wait out the rain. As darkness fell, the group passed by St. Sava's Cathedral and found the Tesla museum to complete their walk through Belgrade. A 400 dinar cab ride followed so they could quickly get back to the hotel and start preparing for the nights events.
Fastforward through preparation.
The group was back in the center of town in their finest dress and well on their way to a semi-blurry New Year's Eve celebration. Unfortunately they were separated because they had to take separate cabs. Luckily one of the girls set out in a search for the others to reunite the group, she succeeded. After getting a couple of drinks the group worked their way closer to the stage were they found a premium pocket of spectators to ring in the new year with. They watched a wicked cool concert in a language that they didn't understand surrounded by American loving university students who were gladly sharing their rum and rakia with their new American friends. The PCRo volunteers did their own special Romanian New Year countdown followed by a "La Multi Ani," and another countdown an hour later with the rest of the crowd. The second countdown celebrated the Serbian New Year and was followed by an impressive fireworks display. A small series of events following the Serbian New Year separated the group. In the hours that followed one couple went to a pizza place where they were presented with free scotch, free pizza, and a couple free slaps to the face. The other couple refused to get screwed over by a cab driver and one of them paid with a punch in the face. They eventually all rejoined at the hotel to chat a little and pass out after a long night. All but one. The missing one arrived with perfect timing early the next morning after an even longer night with some Serbian friends that he made.
On the first day of 2010 the group slowly packed up and checked out of the Continental. The nearby mall was closed so they made their way to the train-station and prepared themselves to leave Belgrade. Unfortunately for them their departure was much further away than planned. Their train left the station an hour and a half late and slowly crawled toward Romania. Three hours after the scheduled departure Belgrade was still visible. At one point the group spotted smoke billowing out of the engine of the train and in a bit of a panic slipped their shoes on expecting to soon be evacuated. Eventually the smoke stopped and the next problem was a group of rowdy drunk Serbians harassing them. One of the 5 volunteers referred to their group as "monkeys in a cage." Despite the annoyances the volunteers were in good spirits, passing the spiked cola bottle and laughing about their adventures. Finally the border was reached and a sigh of relief came over the group. "We've finally made it home," one of the 5 uttered. At least one of the newer volunteers thought of Romania as their "home" for the first time after arriving less than a year earlier.

New Year's Eve 2010 was certainly a memorable one. I can now add Serbia to my short list of countries that I've visited. With all that happened, a sprained ankle, punches in the face, getting poured on, fake hostel, the spirits remained high throughout the adventure and upon arrival in Romania the group consensus was that we had a great time.

Cutting the pig

In concert with my last blog post "A trip to the countryside" I am again writing about the countryside with this post. In the last post I was in a small village in the foothills of the Retezat Mountains in Southern Transylvania, this time I ventured into the cold, flat, south of Romania to a part of the country better known as Oltenia. In the last post I went to the countryside seeking the traditional experience of making tuica. Once again I went out seeking another traditional experience practiced in villages all over the country just before Christmas, cutting the pig. I had been in Petroşani less than 24 hours after being gone for 10 days when I left for the village. Though I was tired of traveling with Romania's sometimes uncertain train system I jumped back on a personnel and headed south. It was an experience that I really did not want to miss.
Site-mate had invited me to the countryside with his Director and her husband. It was a chance for me not only to witness one of Romania's traditions(something I wouldn't be able to see anywhere else), but also to meet some new people and spend time with friends. I arrived on a Tuesday and the main event was on Thursday, giving me a day to relax and get accustomed to my new, temporary environment. That day was mostly spent watching TV and eating delicious food. The extreme weather was the topic of discussion on all of the news stations as Romania was getting hit pretty hard with snow that week. Site-mate and I did get to spend some time out in the cold splitting some wood. In the evening we talked about events to come the following day and our emotions about it. We were both pretty nervous. For me, it was the first time that I would actually take part in the killing of an animal. We had seen the pig. It was a large, strong animal and we were worried about what it would take to hold it down when it was being cut. An early morning awaited us.
It was still dark when we woke up and had our coffee. Before I was done with it we were herded out of the kitchen toward the backyard where the pigpen was. Pisto was the conductor. He had done this sort of thing many times before during holidays and special events. The day before, we had watched him sharpen the knives and at that moment we were to watch him put them to use. The neighbor entered the pen with a rope. Still dark outside I couldn't tell what he was doing in the pitch black pen but I began to hear the pigs reaction. I noticed what was happening when he emerged tugging on the rope. We all put a hand in to help pull the pig out of the pen and drag it to a post nearby. After the rope was securely tied to the post our task was to flip the pig over. I grabbed at one of the hind legs and in unison with the others we managed to get the pig on to its back. It was hard to secure the hind legs. The pig was strong and kicking, and the legs were wet and slippery. I also had some trouble getting my footing in the snow. It took both of us, site-mate and I, to get a good hold on the back legs when Pisto cut the pig. From that point on it got easier, though a good hold was needed for the last strong kicks. It was 6 or 7 minutes after the neck was cut when we saw the final spasm and a pool of blood stained the snow around its head. The sun had risen.
The slaughtering of the pig took the entire rest of the day. First we moved the pig closer to the house and positioned it on its belly so that it could be torched. The first time around with the torch burnt the hair off and the next couple of times were meant to clean the skin. I was able to lend a hand in during this part, scraping the skin with a knife. After the entire pig was clean, the slaughtering began. First the hooves came off, and then the head came off. A stench rose out of the body when it was cut open and the intestines were exposed. The intestines were cleaned out and used later as casing for the meat. Pisto knew exactly what to do and when. He knew where each organ was, were to put it, how to cut the pig, what to do with each section, I just sat back and watched. Before long, all the meat was separated and ready for the next step. After dinner Pisto mixed up the meat and put it through the processor that he had hooked a motor up to. Next he mixed the correct spices into the different processed meats, and finally we all worked together to put the meat into the casings(intestines). It was a long day and I simply watched through most of it, but I gladly lent a hand when I could. With some things, the best way to learn is to participate.
I spent the next three days doing what I did on the first, relaxing and eating delicious food. We also did some shoveling as the snow continued to fall and the wind continued to blow. My newly learned Romanian phrase from the week was bate vântul (strong wind). In Petroşani the mountains shield us from strong winds but in the south where it is flat there is nothing there to stop the wind from blowing you over, or at least piling snow up against your gate.
I understand that to many people the idea of killing a pig sounds horrible and maybe a bit barbaric. In Romania it is a widely accepted tradition that takes place in the weeks leading up to Christmas. It is not a form of sacrifice, or pleasure, it is simply what it is. In about a year's time the pig is raised to be killed and eaten. It is fresh and healthy. Many Romanians that I have talked to since coming to this country take pride in their food. They have welcomed me into their homes and fed me some of the best food that I have ever eaten. They talk about how their food is fresh and made at home. Everything that I have eaten over the past week has been either made there at that small home in the village or made by a neighbor, from the wine in the basement to the fresh pork in the backyard. Being able to get to the countryside to observe, learn, and participate has already made PC Romania a very valuable cross-cultural experience for me.