The last two weeks at site I have milked two cows, worked in the field (not very hard mind you, I mainly just ate home made bread with home made jam and napped all day), Went to the pool, went to the river, went to the salty springs, participated in a 24 hour religious ceremony in full traditional dress, ridden in a karuta, again, Eaten some amazing food that others made for me, and some ok food that I made for myself, sewed clothes for my neighbor’s Barbie, went to the merry cemetery (as pictured above), done some running (not as much as I said I would, of course), and eaten some ice cream (much more than I said I would). I feel like the seed of community integration has been planted, and that it is time to do some exploring before the real work begins. Tomorrow I am headed to the Hungarian region in the center of the country, to help with a camp for older kids that will focus on Peace and Environmental issues, details are pretty much non-existent. I am anticipating a bunch of really confusing trains and busses, and likely no sleep, but right now, with the trip a safe 18 hours away, I am confident that I can handle it, lets hope this confidence sticks around at least until Monday morning when I arrive. After 4 or five days at the camp I will turn 24 and then I will go celebrate that fact with some friends at a music festival, before finally returning to site. I will keep you posted.

My greatest fear about my first few weeks at site was that I would be lonely and bored. This all seems silly now as my greatest problem, if you can even call it that, is that I have barely been able to find a minute to myself. My new neighbors have kept my busy with lots of swimming, card playing, and best of all, cultural activities.

Last Sunday was Sapunta Maria, a Christian Orthodox holiday celebrating The Virgin Mary. I went to a nearby monastery with one of my future 10th grade students. We tagged along with the procession of one of the neighboring towns, since her dad was chauffeuring them in his bus. At 1:00 on Saturday, we boarded the bus dressed in my town’s traditional white shirt and skirt, both embellished with delicate hand embroidery. The others on the bus had a similar shirt, but their skirts were green and had a flowered pattern, as every town has their own costume.

The bus ride there was filled with song. I became so familiar with these songs over the 24 hours that I now can’t seem to get them out of my head. The singing was put on pause when the bus stopped. We unloaded, with all of our stuff and made a trek up the hill to the Monastery. Once the Monastery was in sight we lined up with the smaller children in front carrying banners and a picture of The Virgin, followed by me and my friend Anuta, on either side of the priest, followed then by the others, who carried large images of Mary which hung on sticks. We joined a number of other groups who were circling the monastery singing songs that I at the time hardly understood. When we finished the rounds we went over to the large open-air area where we would be sleeping. We searched for a open area on the wood chips where our group could fit our blankets in amongst the hundreds of other people who had already claimed their real-estate.

When hunger stuck we made a trip down to the town, where a carnival type scene had emerged. We ate some mici and headed back up for our second tour of the church, this time I had become familiar enough with the songs, so I was able to contribute, rather than lip-sync, like I had the first time.

That night I actually slept pretty well, which is impressive considering that there were sermons and singing most of the night. I may have been one of the few. When I asked one of the 60ish year old women, the following morning, how she slept and she said she didn’t I felt a little bit wimpy. But I had no time to nurse my bruised ego, as I had to get dressed up for our last procession around the church. Afterwards we went down the hill to get coffee. Everybody insisted that I stay dressed up which scared me considering coffee is black, my borrowed costume was white, and my reputation for being a little on the clumsy side. Some how I managed to make it back up the hill, stain free, just in time for the final sermon.

My wondering why we remained in traditional dress for our trek down the hill back to the bus, was put to rest when we finally stopped outside of the town lined up for the final mile or so trek to the church in the center of the town that the procession was from. I guess it was our way of brining the trip full circle; a pilgrimage of sorts. According to some, people used to, and do now, only less frequently, make the trek to the monastery on foot. I can’t see how anyone would be able to do that in the heat that we have been experiencing, with no sleep. I could barely hack armed with both sleep and the assistance of a bus. I guess this just goes to show the power of faith. Anyways, finally, 28 hours after we had left I made it back to my bed, both tired and cultured, thankful to already be experiencing so much culture so soon into my stay at site.

First day at site

I have finally made it home, to the small village where I will be living for the next two years. I end my first full day at site salty and smelling of cow, both of which I have my ten year old neighbor to thank. You may remember her from my entry about site visit, when she helped get me a ride on both a karuta and with a cart and bull. So far she hasn’t let me down. Even if we don’t have a chance to do the things planned, she fits in something different and equally amusing into the day.

Today our sites were set on the salty springs that are a town or two away. I have no idea if it is possible to hop a maxi-taxi to there, but being able to go by car was a treat in itself, if for nothing else because I could fully enjoy the beauty of the rolling hills and picturesque villages without fear of being crowded, and in this case, in the comfort of air-conditioning, a luxury which has proven to be rare.

The salt springs themselves consisted of three large pools. They were surrounded by tree, and quaint chalet type pensions, which bared a vague resemblance to the type one might find around Lake Tahoe. The pools were the perfect temperature, but upon entry I immediately became fully salient of the location of every mosquito bite I have itched and the popped blister on my feet. Those I came with told me, that the salt water has healing powers. While this may be true, I think the immediate pain that one feels upon entry into the salty water, is a bit hard to see past. However, there was one major advantage that I noticed right away; since we could float without effort I didn’t have to spend my time keeping my eye on the over ambitious Iza, who likes to jump in the deep end of the pool despite the fact that she can’t swim all that well.

After about three hours there, I went home fully satisfied with my first day, unaware that it could get any better. After dinner I got a knock on my door, “Vrei sa mulci vaca” (want to milk the cow?) Iza asked. My reply was an enthusiastic “DAAAAAAAAAAA”. So we walked about 30 feet to her uncle’s where I got to milk a cow, not for very long, mind you, as it is extremely difficult, but I plan on putting “can milk a cow” on my resume when I get back to the States, so this surely won’t be the last time.

The Peace Corps staff has said that trains are a good place to experience Romanian culture, and that we are likely to have some of our most memorable experiences while aboard them. They hinted that it was likely that not all these “memorable experiences” will be good ones, but thankfully those I have had so far, have all been positive. My first such experience was in a sleeper car on my way back from my site visit. The people who were in my compartment shared their amazing food with me, told me one of the most personal life stories I have heard, exchanged e-mail addresses with me, and gave me both a poem and a four leaf clover. This experience is a good vignette of Romanian culture. These are people who know how to share in every sense of the word. My trip this time, while still filled with warm Romanians, was a horse of a different color. One factor was likely the fact that this time I was carrying two years worth of stuff on my back, in my hands, and was all around a stress case. My travel companion, Ryan, who will also be my closest peace corps neighbor (about 30 km away), on the other hand, had even more stuff than I did, yet didn’t appear to have a care in the world, a personality trait that I for one have not been blessed with.

We had about three hours to kill between our Personal train and the Acceelerat train that we would be taking overnight, so we got some food, and tried not to look at the dog that had been split in half and lay on the tracks in front of us.

At some point a homeless man sat down next to Ryan and struck up a conversation. Ryan later confessed that homeless people befriend him everywhere he goes. I’m not sure if it is his laid back hippy disposition (he is the splitting image of “Sunshine” from Remember the Titans), or the fact that he usually can be found smoking freshly rolled cigarettes, but I do know that in this case, it was his accepting and giving nature that kept this man with us the entire time.

About two hours of conversation and ten lei later it was about time for Ryan and I to catch our train so we made the dreaded journey across a set of tracks to the platform. Ryan unknowingly had not only bought this mans dinner, but also his loyalty. He helped Ryan carry one of his many bags and tailed loyally behind us as we made our way. We had only been at the correct platform for about 5 minutes when a train pulled up. “Is this our train?” Ryan and his friend were sure it was so we looked for our car. Only a few minutes passed and the train began to move. It became apparent that if we were going to catch this train we were going to have to hurry. We began to run.

I can’t help but chuckle when I think about how the three of us must have looked to passers by. I was running as fast as I could with my giant backpack, dragging my rolling suitcase, which had fallen onto its side and refused to turn upright, and casting off unnecessary extras that were holding me back, such as my two water bottles, my attention focused on the outstretched hand of the man on the train. Ryan was doing the same only he had an additional smaller back pack on his front and was being tailed by his friend who was still nobly carrying one of his suitcases. Finally, I realized that I had two options, either drop my “rolling” suitcase and hop the train, or give up. I seriously considered the first option, which in retrospect would have been insane, considering it had my computer in it, among other objects of value. Ryan also decided to stay with his luggage. When the train was out of sight we stood next to each other, out of breath and disillusioned. I looked at my watch and realized that it wasn’t time for our train to be there yet. The homeless man still insisted it was our train, but I decided to get a second opinion. The people next to us informed us that our train still had ten minutes, at which point we couldn’t help but laugh at ourselves.

When the train finally got there we boarded successfully. There were some complications in fitting our bags in our compartment, but it all worked out and 15 hours later I found myself saying goodbye to Ryan, the last shred of my American support system, and heading off with my new Romanian colleague to my new Romanian life.

The past week or so has been a whirlwind of language tests, our swearing in ceremony at the ambassador’s house in Bucharest, after parties, packing, and finally goodbyes. It was bittersweet. While I can’t wait to get started with my service, there are plenty of things to miss about training. I have had such a great experience with my host family, and leaving the support of my fellow volunteers and their ability to speak English is hard. However, my last night in town, I had an experience that made it apparent that it was time to leave the city.

I was walking in the city late at night, which I try to avoid when possible. Unfortunately, I had gone out to celebrate my last night with friends and somehow forgot to bring enough money for a cab. I walked with a fellow volunteer to her home and had only a short bit further to go on my own, but at night a block or two can be dangerous because of the turf wars. No, I am not talking about gangs in the traditional sense. I feel incredibly safe on the street in terms of the people; I am referring to the dogs. While I have grown accustomed to them during the day, at night they run the streets. Every night for the past three months I have been able to hear them barking and fighting from the safety or my room, but now I found myself in their territory.

Suddenly, two dogs approached me. They were being oddly friendly. One came up and nearly forced me to pet it. Then it started to get slightly aggressive, biting my skit and pulling at it. I yelled at it in an attempt to scare it away while simultaneously trying to hail one of the passing cabs. No luck, in fact the dog just started to growl, and the cabs ignored me. I decided to just freeze and hope it left eventually without taking a bite out of my leg, and finally, after three terrifying minutes, it went away. I only had two more blocks left, but I knew there was still much ahead. I walked no more than 50 feet when another dog approached me, growling and braking. This time a cab came out of nowhere and stopped next to me, just in time. I pleaded with him to except all the money I had left, however insufficient it was. He agreed without second thought. On the short trip to my apartment, we passed at least ten dogs on the way, all of which barked and chased after us. I’m not sure if he the driver was trying to make me feel better, or just having himself a little fun, but for whatever reason he drove straight at them in an attempt to either scare or kill them, I’m not really sure. All I know is that if there is one thing I won’t miss about our training site it is definitely the dogs.