They Told Me There'd Be Days Like These

No one ever said it'd be easy to be a Peace Corps volunteer.

Over the last few days I've been revisiting some old questions. Like, "am I an effective volunteer?" or "what sort of impact am I having?" The answer to both of these questions is an unequivocal "I don't know." I think I've been frustrated with the quality of my service lately because it doesn't seem like I'm making any sort of progress. Teaching at school isn't really all that bad, but neither is it extremely great. The kids at Mondial have some good days, but the bad days are just as plentiful. Moreover, many projects I've started seem to be failing or going nowhere. On the other hand, I realize it's hard to gauge one's impact without the benefit of hindsight. Even still, sometimes curiosity gets the best of you and you just have to ask, "have I changed anything?" It's rather frustrating when you look for results and can't find any. I suppose I tend to look for evidence of something big, something tangible, when in reality the fruits of my labor are probably more indistinct.

In addition, it seems I've become more cycnical lately. I remember the pessimism of some of the volunteers I met when I first came to Romania in May 2007. They'd been in country for nealry 2 years, and so they were on their way out. Some of them apparently had a pretty difficult experience, and their depiction of life as a PCV in Romania was decidedly less than flowery. Witnessing their pessimism was somewhat shocking for a bright-eyed, gung-ho newbie like myself, and I promised myself that I'd never become like them. I still refuse to be like them. I mean, there are many things about my experiences up to now that I cherish. However, it certainly hasn't been all hunky-dorey and I can't seem to help but complain a little. In fact, feel like my mood has been more negative than usual the past few weeks. A lot of things that usually wouldn't bother me have been getting on my nerves. I seem to be less tolerant of Romanian culture, less patient. For example, I find myself asking things like "why can't this sidewalk be a flat, paved surface?" or "why are the roads full of holes?" or "why don't people put their trash in the trash can?" or "why is it every that construction project around here takes several years to complete?" or "why won't the waitress look at me when she walks by?" or "what do you mean the documents aren't available?! In the States such information would be public."

I think that last question touches upon part of my problem: I've fallen into the trap of comparing aspects of Romanian society with what I'm accustomed to in the States. Often the comparisons are unfair. Usually I'd write off my daily annoyances as the result of cultural differences. I'd say, "just accept it, this is how things are in Romania." However these sort of differences have been getting to me more and more lately. Perhaps it's that I want to see things change, and they aren't (at least not according to my expectations). Or perhaps it's that I've been here for nearly 2 years now, and I miss being home-- I can see the finish line approaching, and I can't help but envision being back in a land where everything is as it should be. These kind of thoughts are horribly ethnocentric of me, and I hate to admit that they've crossed my mind at some point or another. I shouldn't be thinking in such terms. But, I believe the main contributing factor behind my current cynicism is that my frustrations about being a good volunteer are spilling over into my daily life, making me more sensitive to these little, admittedly insignificant bothers. It just seems that not much is going my way at the moment. Then again, I've felt this way before; it doesn't last forever. During our pre-service training they warned us that Peace Corps service can be like a roller coaster. There are good periods, and bad. Moreover, you fortunes can change suddenly, inexplicably and without warning. One week may be terrible, and the next may be awesome. It's even happened that I've experienced both extremes all within the space of one day. It just happens.

Like I mentioned above, the finish line is approaching. I'll be leaving Romania this summer. I've recently started prepping people for my departure, which has made me begin to realize just how hard it will be to leave. While I certainly miss my family and friends back in the States, this place has become like a second home for me. Life here is now familiar. I've grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of Lugoj. I've made many friends. My apartment is comfortable. And, what is more, I have a land-lady that does my laundry for me (Heaven forbid I should have to do my own laundry when I return to the States!). More than anything, the thought that I'll be leaving reminds me that I'm running out of time to do everything I want to do.

Added to my feelings of ineffectiveness, melancholy about leaving, and grief over the lingering gloomy weather is one more thing: anxiety about what I'll do after Peace Corps. I honestly have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, and every time someone asks me about it I feel even more pathetic. I had hoped by now I'd have some clear plan for my life, but things are still as murky as they were at the start. However, I'm holding out hope that something will turn up. Something always does.

Notwithstanding my mixed feelings at this point, I can say joining the Peace Corps was a good choice. I'd do it all over again. And, while my time here has had its ups and downs, I'd say things have been more positive overall. Furthermore, I suppose it's something of an accomplishment that I've made it this far. Heck, I remember wondering at the outset how I was going to survive 2 years without a microwave! I'm glad to say I am indeed surviving, and that counts for something, right? We'll see what the last few months have in store...

What's your secret? Polident?

On Thursdays after my normal classes at school I go to the Kid's Club to give English lessons to the young'uns (3rd to 4th graders). They're fun, but can be quite tiring. After a couple hours with them, I usually hang out with the kids in Tibi's art studio, which is adjacent to my English room. Filip, a kindergartener, is usually there when I show up. Filip's inquisitive little eyes are framed by Steve Urkel-esque glasses, and his wispy blond hair sprouts in messy tufts.

During one particular encounter, few weeks ago, Filip looked up at me through his thick glasses and asked in his meek little voice, "Domnul, aveti proteza?" (Mister, do you have dentures?). At first I was sort of shocked by his audacity. But then again, when I was his age, I had the same chutzpah with strangers (after all, it was me who, perched on my mother's lap while riding a train, had accused the woman sitting next to us of being "fat. "I then proceeded to play with her arm while extoling her flabbiness. She was indeed a large lady. I was just calling 'em like I saw 'em). So I knew Filip was asking out of pure curiosity. Plus I realized that dental care in Romania is not necessarily the priority it is in other, more affluent countries; the sight of missing teeth (or perhaps gold teeth) is much more common around here than seeing someone who has benefited from braces. So, I responded to Filip, more amuzed than offended, "Nu! is naturali," flicking them with my finger.

Tibi, who had overheard the whole exchange, said, "oh that reminds me of a joke!" (he always has a joke for the moment). He actually ended up telling two or three jokes on the subject of dentures. I only managed to remember one. I figured I'd write it here since I actually managed to remember it, and I've been getting some decent mileage out of it lately. So here you go:

An old woman needs a new pair of dentures, so she goes to see the dentist and asks how much they'd cost. The dentist informs her they'd be anywhere between 300-500 euros. Discouraged by the price, the lady goes home. She happens to look in the newspaper and finds an advertisement for 'slightly used' dentures. Hoping to find something more within her price range, she goes to the address listed in the ad. When she gets there a man shows her to a giant table covered in all sorts of dentures. She takes a couple of hours to go through the whole collection, finally selecting 2-3 possible pairs. However, none of them is a perfect fit. The man assures her that if she can't find anything right now, she should come back next week when he'll have more. So, the lady comes back the following week, and sure enough, he has some new additions. Once again, she scours the collection--trying them out, looking in the mirror, etc. Finally she finds a pair that seems just about right; they need only minor modification. She asks the man if he can make the necessary adjustments, and he responds, "lady, I don't make any modifications. I just get what I can find at the graveyard."

Bada-bing. That's today's denture-related joke. Now excuse me while I go floss.

A Visit to the Archives

It was one of those days that started off with a bad omen. Instead of getting on the train to Timisoara, I boarded the train heading to Caransebes, which is in the complete opposite direction. This is a mistake I never ever make. But then again, given how much I travel by train these days, I suppose it was bound to happen at least once.

The train I intended to take was due to leave Lugoj at 8:47am from line 2. Or so the arrivals/departures board indicated. So, when a train pulled into the station on line 2, I climbed on straighaway, without thinking much about it. For some reason I hadn't noticed that the train had come from the wrong direction (which meant it'd also be leaving in the wrong direction). Moreover, if I had only checked the sign on the side of the wagon as I climbed on, I would have noticed it wasn't the right train. However, I didn't. In any case, everything seemed in order-- the train had arrived on line 2 about when I was expecting it to and it even pulled away at exactly 8:47. It was only when the controller came to check my ticket that I discovered what was wrong. He looked at my ticket with a puzzled expression, and told me I must have made a mistake. This train was going to Caransebes, not Timisoara. I was surprised, but now that he mentioned it, I suddenly noticed that the landscape outside looked a bit different than what I remembered from previous trips to Timisoara. I asked him how this could have happened. After all, the train had left at the correct time and from the correct track. He explained that the train I wanted had been switched to line 3. I argued that the sign at the station displaying departures didn't indicate any such thing. His only response was "greseala, eroare" (mistake, error). That wasn't exactly the comforting response I was looking for.

I sat for a moment, wondering what to do. Suddenly I jumped up from my seat and ran after the controller, who had passed on to the next compartment. I asked him where I should get off in order to catch a train back to Timisoara. He informed me that there was a train from Caransebes at 12:00, which would get into Timisoara at 2pm. Far too late. At this point I was about 15 minutes outside of Lugoj. Glancing out the window, I noticed that the main road back to Timisoara, E70, ran parallel to the train tracks. So, I decided I'd jump off at the next stop and try my luck with hitching. I knew it'd have to get me into Timisoara sooner than 2.

So I gathered my things, and got off at the village of Gavojdia. I crossed the tracks and walked to the road. There was a little old lady there, apparently heading in the same direction as me. As it turned out, she was trying to get to Lugoj. I explained to her what had happened to me and she said the same thing happened to her on a few ocassions. We comisserated for a bit whilst flagging down vehicles. It wasn't long before a car pulled over, and it just so happened the driver was going all the way to Timisoara. So things worked out in the end.

My purpose in going to Timisoara was to pay a visit to the State Archives. I was hoping to locate some official records that I could use to definitively prove Bela Lugosi's place of residence. My efforts turned out to be somewhat ill-fated, similar to my affair with the train earlier that morning.

I suppose I should explain the recent developments regarding 'Project Lugosi' that brought about this trip to the archives. After the newspaper article that was published in February, there seems to be more public discussion of the project. A good number of people have approached me on the subject saying they actually learned something from reading the article. Apparently there has been further reportage on the subject, but it was done without my knowledge. Supposedly the local TV station did a piece, and the newspaper published another article. I haven't had the chance to see either of them yet; the only reason I know they exist is because a few folks have said they saw something connected to Bela Lugosi in the news. However, when I ask them to give further details, they can't seem to remember any. Alas. I suppose I'll just stop by the town library and peruse their old newspaper collections.

Rumor has it that the latest article makes mention of a memorial plaque that was made a few years back, but was never mounted on Lugosi's home. Apparently the previous mayor had commisioned the plaque and tried to put it on the house, but his efforts were quashed by the stubborn refusals of the property owner. Upon hitting this dead end, the plaque was supposedly stowed in a dark cellar somewhere and forgotten. In fact, it turns out that this rumor is pretty much true. I confirmed it with one of my contacts at the town hall who said a plaque is indeed in existence, just sitting around collecting dust. He even invited me to come to the town hall sometime to see it. He also confirmed that the current owner of the house is a very difficult man, and added that before we can even think about trying once again to convince him, we need to procure the proper documents to prove his house is what we claim it to be.

Later that day I talked to Mr. Bloch (the fellow who's been helping me with this project from the very beginning) about tracking down some official town records. He said that this would be difficult because many records were lost in a townhall fire in the early 20th century. Even still, he was able to provide me with a rather useful starting point, a detailed article about Bela Lugosi's early years. The article, "Dracula war ein Lugoscher" (written in German, as the title might imply), was published in 1993. While I can't read or speak German, it didn't much much matter. The important thing was that I was able to decipher the bibliography at the end of the article, which listed the primary sources the author used in writing the piece. One of the sources listed was the archives of the Catholic Church in Lugoj. Another source was the shool archives of Coriolan Brediceanu Lyceum, the very high school where I'm teaching.

The next logical step, of course, was to seek out these sources. I first went to the church and asked the pastor if I could look at the registries. He told me, much to my disappointment, that any records dating before 1948 had been moved to the state archives in Timisoara. My next stop was the Coriolan Brediceanu school library. I asked the librarian to see the archives from the late 19th century. But, just like the pastor, she told me those documents had been moved to the state archives. So, it became evident that I'd have to visit Timisoara since all the documents of interest to me seemed to have been consolidated there.

My next question was, 'how does one get access to the archives?' Based on previous experiences with official government institutions in Romania, I imagined the state archives to be something like the warehouse in the final scene of Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark-- an inaccessible, chaotic jumble of abandoned artifacts. Anyway, I knew I needed an 'in,' so I paid a visit to the curator of the Lugoj history museum, Dr. Wallner. I wasn't sure how 'public' the archives were, so I asked her if there was anything special I needed to do in order to be granted access. Having lived in Romania this long, I've realize you can't always expect things to happen without the proper documentation. And not only is the paperwork itself important, but it's often even more important that everything be signed and stamped in triplicate. I figured the state archives would require much the same. However, when I mentioned it to Dr. Wallner, she simply said, "oh no problem, I'm colleagues with the director of the archives. I can give him a call and let him know you're coming." So, she did just that, and all was taken care of. As is often the case, it's who you know that makes the difference.

So, I arrived at the archives this past Wednesday, after being dropped off by the lady who had given me a ride all the way from Gavojdia. She was a little peeved that I wanted to pay her 9 lei for the trip, and doggedly demanded 13, which I begrudgingly gave her. Entering through the main entrance of the state archives building, I was encountered with a rather large and gruff looking security guard. I told him I wanted to speak with Mr. Rus, the director. He looked at me mistrustingly and asked if I knew Mr. Rus. I replied that in fact I didn't, but I had been sent on the part of Dr. Wallner from Lugoj. He made a phone call, and apparently everything checked out, because I was let inside. I was shoed to the 'study room' where I was greeted by a rather attractive young lady (this was already turning out to be different than I had expected...) She sat me down at the table, and placed a stack of papers in front of me. Ahhh, paperwork, I knew it'd have to enter into the equation somehow. The bulk of the papers were forms I had to complete in order to obtain a reserach license, others were waivers and agreements. I read through them all, filled in the blanks and signed where neccessary. 'Glad to have the paperwork over with,' I thought. But, the formalities weren't quite over. The girl came back with a book of the archive's rules, regulations and procedures, which she plopped down on the table in front of me. Most of it was common sense, i.e. don't steal, deface or burn documents; don't take pictures without permission or without paying the fee; no eating, disruptive conversations, or violent behavior; and of course no dancing.

I requested see the church records for 1882. However, the girl informed me that the registry had been sent to Bucuresti for micro-filming. I asked when it'd be back, and she said she really didn't know. This was just the answer I expected. Rather bummed, I moved on to the next thing on my list, school documents. I requested records of his first grade class (1893-4), second grade (1894-5) and third grade (1895-6). For each I had to fill out a request form, which I gave to the girl so that she could go off to the archives to search for the materials I'd asked for. When she came back, she had three booklets, one for each of the school years I'd requested. The books had the names of all the students in the class, and their basic academic information (essentially giant grade books). The funny thing was that these books looked frightenly familiar--Romanian schools still use the same archaic system for recording marks. Other than the fact that everything in these books was written in Hungarian, I felt like I was looking over one of the class catalogues currently being used at our school.

Unfortunately, none of the class records listed a home address, so they didn't turn out to be the sources I was hoping for. But, even if they didn't mention an address, they did list his birthdate, religion, county of residence and father's name, so it seems like they covered every other tangential, mildly-relevant detail. The church registry surely would have recorded an address. And, as much as I'd rather not, I may have to take a trip to Bucuresti to see if I can find the regristry and take a picture of the lisitng for his baptism.

Even while the class records may not have been the source I would have liked, they did offer some interesting insights. For example, it seems that Bela's father died sometime between 1894 and 1895, while the boy was in second grade. I inferred this because a cross appears next to his father's name in the catalogue from those years, but doesn't appear in 1893-4, nor do any other the other student's fathers have a similar cross next to their names. Another thing is that it seems Bela quit school halfway through the 3rd grade, since he lacks any marks for the second semester of 1896 (he would have been 14. I guess they started school later back then). Perhaps it was his father's untimely death that influenced Bela's decision to leave school.

I certainly wasn't the first to look through these records to find out more about the famed actor's past. I know this because inside the front cover of each of the three books I accessed was a paper where previous researchers had signed. Before me, the most recent person to access the same records was a certain Petrina Calagalic in June of 2006. According to her notes, her purpose was "Documentary" and under observations she wrote "Bela Lugosi."

So, my first trip to the state archives may not have been a complete success, but I learned some things, and now I have a two year certification to access the archives! Not quite as cool as a membership at Barnes and Noble, but I'll take it.

The Keeper of the Tome

The school library here in town holds many treasures. One of the most interesting items is a giant book of German, French and Italian maps from the early 18th century. Whenever I visit, the librarian is always very happy pull it off the shelves for me. The thing is so huge that whenever she carries it in her arms her petite frame is almost entirely eclipsed. It's like watching a giant walking book. The thing is also quite hefty, as you might imagine. There must be over 250 maps in the collection. Most are of Europe, but there are also a few world maps, which include the Americas (and the early colonies). It's pretty cool to see how people saw the world back then. It's also pretty cool to see how they made maps back then; the attention to detail is pretty impressive (even if they weren't perfectly accurate) and the decorative ink patterns along the borders are equally stunning.

Here you can see Lugoj (Lugosch), located on the Timis River. To the West of Lugoj is 'Koschtil,' today called Costei; it's the first village outside of Lugoj on the way to Timisoara. To the East is 'Kritschava,' today the village of Criciova.

Thanks to Chris for the photos

Frustrations of Late

I recently bought a cardigan. It makes me feel a bit like Mister Rogers. Charming, I know. When I'm finished with school for the day, I come home, change my shoes, throw on my navy-blue cardigan and I'm ready for a jaunty conversation with a postal worker, or perhaps a tour of a crayon factory.

But, this Tuesday, even while I was wearing my cardigan, was not much of a Mister Rogers sort of day.

As I usually do on Tuesdays, I went to the after-school center for kids from the Mondial neighborhood. It was snowed all day and was still snowing as I made my way, which made the 30-minute trek a little more onerous than usual. I mean, it wouldn't be so bothersome if the sidewalks were shoveled (where there are sidewalks) and if the blowing snow didn't attack my face from all angles. The cold air and stinging snow were in stark contrast to the week before, when it had been so warm and sunny that I rode my bike out to Mondial. I even managed a quick trip into the neighboring village of Herendesti, which is just beyond the center (taking the bike to Mondial saves so much time that I had some time to kill).

Last week I told the kids that I was going to give them a graded quiz the following Tuesday. I had decided to do so because something had to change; I had to try something different. We'd been working on the Alphabet for a couple months, and many of them still couldn't get past 'D.' We didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I needed to hold them accountable, and I thought waving grades over their head would do the trick.

So, I decided to start fresh, with a lesson titled, "How are You?" Basically, the idea was for them to practice asking and responding to the question 'how are you?' I gave them a few possible responses, including words like good, tired, hungry, upset. I tried to make it extremely clear to them by translating each term directly from Romanian. I even made sure they'd know how to prnounce the words by using a sort of Romlish pronounciation key. For example I wrote 'gud' in parentheses next to 'good' because their first instinct is to pronounce letters as they would in Romanian. As I said, they still haven't mastered the English alphabet. So, according to this model, tired would be 'taierd,' hungry would be 'hăngri' and upset would be 'ăpset.' It's funny, through teaching English to non-native speakers I've discovered just how crazy the English rules of pronounciation are. Or should I say it's the absence of rules that's crazy...

I told the kids to study the five words we had gone over so they'd be ready for the quiz. I thought I had prepared them well. I thought the quiz was going to be easy for them. But no. I gave them their test, and the majorty of them did horribly. Out of 12 kids, 8 got a grade of 5/10 or lower. What is more, many of the kids seemed happy to walk away with a grade of 3, 4 or 5. I admonished them, explaining that they'd actually not done well at all. I strongly urged them to be more diligent about studying. All I'd get in response would be timid sideways glances and half-hearted avowals.

While talking to Lore, one of the 4th graders, I discovered something that may explain why most of the kids haven't been studying. I pointed to some notes she had in her notebook and asked her, "why don't you study this at home?" She explained that the notebooks they use belong to the center and they can't take them home. Oh. I hadn't expected this to be the case.

Afterwards I approached Sister Cristina, the main nun in charge of running of the center. I explained to her my concerns about the kids being able to study at home. I'd done my best to make it easy for them to do so, but if they didn't have access to their notes outside of the center, what good would it be? If the kids wouldn't be able to take their notebooks home, I suggested that perhaps we could make little study sheets for them to take home. Sora gave me an unenthusiastic response, "even if we give them a sheet of paper to take home, what makes you think they'll use it to study? It's too easy to 'forget.'" Maybe her response was fairly realistic, but I couldn't help thinking, "well, we should at least try it."

When I first started going to the center, I wasn't really sure what I was getting myself into. However, I think I'm starting to realize what I'm up against. I asked Sora how the kids came to the center. She told me that she basically goes door to door, canvasing the neighborhood. By explaining why it'd be beneficial for parents to send their kids to the center, she hopes to spark some interest. I've seen the neighborhood, the living conditions are quite paltry. Sora told me she looks for the most 'desperate' cases. What happens at the center is one thing, but I can only imagine what home life is like for most of these kids. I don't suppose there's much continuity between the two spheres. In fact Sora told me that often parents will send their kids, but offer no further support or encouragement.

I suspect the reasons these kids lack academic motivation are complicated. First of all, they've probably been tossed aside by the system for as long as they've been alive. I know that many of them attend marginalized schools and their teachers aren't the most motivated. From what I understand, their English lessons essentially consist of the teacher writing words on the board that they copy into their notebooks. Not much more than that. If rote memorization is all they've ever known, I can see how my methods might seem strange. Originally I thought the kids would immediately latch onto my style of teaching, but that hasn't happened. I just wonder if what I'm trying to do confounds them, being unlike anything they're used to.

I've decided to try the same quiz again next week, just to see if there's any improvement. I believe, however, that a total reevaluation of my methods is in order. Obviously what I'm doing right now isn't quite working. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what I can do to engage them. This is probably the biggest challenge I've faced so far as a PCV.

Washing with snow?

I'd like to share something that I learned today, an idiomatic expression.

So, we've recently gotten more snow than I have ever seen in Lugoj, that is to say about 6 to 8 inches. It's been snowing the last few days pretty much non-stop, which, compared to last year, has been a virtual blizzard. And with all this snow, the kids have been understandably giddy. So have been some of the teachers (the ones who don't have to drive, I suppose). Walking to school has suddenly become quite perilous, not only because the ground is slippery and the snow is constantly flying in your face (regardless of which direction you're heading), but also because snowballs are darting in every direction, and it doesn't much matter who you are; if you get caught in their crossfire, you stand a very good chance of being hit.

Heading to school this morning, I noticed some children in a snowball fight. Luckily they were too busy targeting each other to notice me. One of the kids got in a good shot, whacking the back of another's head. The victim spun around in a fury, yelling "arghhh! te spăl eu!" This would litterally translate as "I'm going to wash you." "Huh?" I thought as I stared at them for a moment. Later, I figured out he essentially meant, "I'm gonna get you back!" However, at that moment, I was mildly confused to hear such an expression in that context. In any case, I didn't think too hard about it and continued on my way.

I had essentially forgotten the whole episode until I was suddenly reminded of it at school later in the day. It was Sima--the rascally mathematics teacher who always wears expensive suits--that reminded me. During one of the class breaks he had run outside to pick up some snow, and snuck back into the building with a few snowballs. Practically without warning, he pelted some of students who were close to him in the hallway. I quickly jumped for cover behind a movable billboard on which the results of a recent mathematics contest had been posted. The ambush ended when Sima ran out of snowballs. Deeming it safe, I came out of hiding. When Sima saw me, he said, "Oh Mike! Had you been here just a little earlier, I would have washed you." I could have guessed it, and I told him there was good reason I didn't want him to see me. What immediately struck me was that he had used the same turn of phrase as the children I'd seen on the sidewalk--his reference to 'washing' jumped right out at me. "What a funny way to refer to throwing a snowball," I thought. But, as far as I can gather from these two snow-throwing experiences, this is the standard way to describe the act of hurling a snowball at someone.

Boiling Oil!

It's about 10:30 on Sunday morning, and I receive another of those phone calls from Tibi:

"Hey Mike, wanna go swimming today?"
"Tibi, it's January."
"Yeah, I know, don't worry. We're going to a thermal bath. It's all indoors and very warm."
I paused for a moment, thinking... "Aw heck, ok. I got nothing better to do. Let's go."
"Alright, we'll come to pick you up. Be ready in half an hour."

Half an hour, but of course.

I rushed to finish my bowl of muesli and quickly grabbed a towel, bathing suit and flip-flops. Tibi called when he was downstairs waiting, so I dashed down to meet him. We got in the car and drove off to pick up Simona, Tibi's girlfriend (and my boss at the Kid's Club). Simona stuffed the trunk with drinks and food for the day, including a whole roasted chicken. One thing I've learned about interactions with Romanians (it doesn't really matter what sort) is that you never have to worry about going hungry.

We drove down the road a bit, through the village of Costei, and took a right into Tipari to pick up Tibi's mother and her friend. It was one of those cold, grey, wet days. The streets of Tipari were muddy enough for a volleyball match. The current song on Tibi's MP3 audio system was 'Dancing Queen' by Abba.

We cruised along E70 towards Timisoara. Well, perhaps 'cruised' is a bit of an exaggeration. After all, the road is in terrible condition, and has been under construction for decades. They just can't seem to get it right. In fact, they just repaired some sections, and I swear it's worse than it was before. Anyway, Tibi was driving, I was in the passanger seat and the rest were in the backseat, grumbling every time we hit a bump. We weren't 10 minutes into the ride before Tibi's mom started teasing me from the backseat about my ability to pronounce 'egészségedre.' I just laughed, politely saying that I've retired from speaking Hungarian. Soon enough we came to the village of Belint, and Tibi started slowing down while looking for something on the left side of the road. He stopped the car, finding what he had been looking for-- a man waiting in front of his house, a bag tightly clenched in his hand. I soon recognized the man; it was Karol, a friend of Tibi and his mother. Forgetting to look both ways, Karol hastily ran out into the street to come towards us, but he had to jump back when he heard the honks of an approaching truck. After the truck passed, Karol judiciously looked both ways and jogged across with his bag, which was apparently full of apples. All he had wanted to do was give us apples for the ride! I have no idea how he and Tibi had set up the apple transfer, since I hadn't seen Tibi use his phone at all during the drive, but they must have planned it somehow. Who knows. These sort of things happen all the time. Anyway, now well-stocked with apples, we continued on our way. The next Abba track started playing, I believe it was 'Money Money.'

Eventually we came to our destination, the village of Sanmihaiul German. The air in the pool hall was warm and thick with fog, it also had an unusual smell to it. The room was very crowded; apparently we weren't the only ones to have the idea to come to Sanmihai. All my companions had made it into the pool before me. So, when I entered the room, I was more concerned with finding my group than with the color of the water. Spotting them at the opposite corner, I walked over to meet them. It was only when I got closer, seeing Tibi in the water, that I noticed the color. It was black; I couldn't see anything below the water line. "Water's pretty clean, eh?" I astutely observed, adding, "Do you think it's safe to drink?" Always quick with the wit, Tibi commented, "it would be if it weren't for all the pee."

Needless to say, urine was not the only thing in that water. I just shrugged my shoulders and dipped in. Man, it was hot! I couldn't stand it for very long, so I decided to sit on the side and dangle my feet from the edge. Tibi came over to join me, deciding, like me, that the ambient temperature was warm enough. Not only was the heat hard to bear, but that pungent smell was also starting to get to me. I knew it was a familiar odor, but for some reason I couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't quite sulfurous, as you might expect in a thermal bath. It was something else altogether. In fact, now that I reflect on it, the smell was something like the inside of the old 'Muppets' lunch tin that I had during my kindergarten days-- the smell of old lunch meat, rotten bananas and spilt milk. Mmmmm. I Finally I asked Tibi what it was I was smelling. He looked at me, scrunched his nose and told me it was petrol. Of course! Oil! That explained the color of the water, as well as the slippery feel of my skin. I scrunched my nose too. "I don't much care for it either," Tibi declared.

As we were sitting there, the power suddenly cut out. As a result, the ventialtion fans stopped working, and the air, which was already hot and stifling, became even more so. Soon enough the 'pool boy' (a scruffy middle-aged man, pot-belly hanging out of his extra-small red t-shirt and cigarette dangling from his lip) came along to open the windows. This made some of the folks in the pool noticeably nervous, since open windows would invite that most unwelcome of guests: curent. The cool, moist air from outside flooded into the hall, and immediately condensed into a thick fog which can only be compared to my mother's pea soup (the kind of pea soup in which you can make your spoon stand up by itself). At least we could breathe.

Tibi and I continued sitting along the side of the pool, our feet turning into oily prunes. We both decided that the temperature was much more tolerable with the windows open, even if the fog made it nearly impossible to see. As he often loves to do, Tibi spent a good deal of time telling me jokes. Unfortunately, I usually have a terrible memory for jokes, and when the jokes are in Romanian, my memory is even less. So, whenever Tibi tells me a joke, which is virtually always, it usually goes in one ear and out the other and I can't recall it 5 minutes later. For the sake of this blog, that might be a good thing since most of his jokes wouldn't be appropriate to relate here anyway.

The electricity returned just as we were getting ready to leave, much to the joy of the cheering masses. I can only suppose they were cheering because the power was back, not because we were leaving. That's what I tell myself anyhow. We decided to head straight home, since we were hungry, and the pool hall, what with it's sopping-wet atmosphere and less-than-appetizing aroma, didn't seem like the ideal place to eat. So, we went to Simona's place, where she re-heated the chicken. We ate it with a prune-sauce and homemade wine. I noticed there was a vase with mistletoe in the middle of the table, so I explained to Tibi and Simona the typical Christmas tradition of hanging mistletoe in a doorway. Upon hearing what happens when two people meet under the mistletoe, Tibi's eyes lit up. "Mike, this is great! Why don't you make yourself a crown of mistletoe to wear at parties?" I explained to him that this isn't exactly how it's supposed to work. Instead, we decided it'd be more appropriate to carry around a cardboard doorframe with the mistletoe hanging from it. Silly, right? Such are conversations with Tibi. Anyway, I think I've got my next Halloween costume all figured out.

After dinner, I went back to my place to take a shower. I did my best to scrub the oil smell out of everything...but I fear I'll never get it out of my bathing suit.

Piure de Castane cu Frisca

This culinary adevnture began over a month ago. Before Christmas I was in Szeged, Hungary with Mr. and Mrs. Bloch (acquaintances from Lugoj). While there, we went to a cafe, and Mr. Bloch insisted I try the chestnut puree. I'd never heard of such a thing; as far as I was concerned, chestnuts came in two varieties- roasted or unroasted. Boy, was I wrong! Turns out the chestnut universe is much more complicated than I had ever conceived.

Out of puree curiosity (get it?), I ordered a portion of the chestnut dessert. It looked a little like vermicelli covered in whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate. Simply put, it was delicious! Before we left Szeged, we stopped at a store so I could pick up a package of frozen chestnut puree to take home.

The puree sat in my freezer until tonight, when I finally decided to try making the dessert at home. I took the package out to thaw, and bought some heavy cream. I just needed something with which to whip the cream, and something to transform the puree into worm-like strands (viermi, which is in fact how one would describe them in Romanian). A whisk would suffice for the cream, but I knew I'd have to be a little more creative with the 'worms.'

As I've done before in this sort of situation, I went my neighbors to see if they could help me out. My land-lady appeared not to be home, so I went to Vasile, one door over, and asked if he had a pasta press, food mill or potato ricer. He hailed his wife who came out of the kitchen, saying she didn't have anything of the sort. Ok, I thought, 'what about a garlic press?' No such luck. They asked me exactly what I was trying to do, if I was doing something with garlic they'd be happy to let me borrow their grater. I explained I didn't need a grater, I needed some sort of press because I was trying to make castane cu frisca. They looked at me kind of funny, and asked, "then what do you need the garlic press for?" There seemed to be some confusion about whether a garlic press would be suitable to crush a chestnut. I tried to explain that I wasn't trying to crush chestnuts; I had already bought pureed chestnut, and I wanted to make it into worms. This led to a bit more confusion: "wait, what about worms now?!" In retrospect, I suppose 'spaghetti' might have been a better word choice, but at the time all that came to mind was 'worms.' In any case, we all had a good laugh.

Though he couldn't help me with the garlic press, Vasile suggested I run to the pharmacy to pick up a syringe, break off the tip and use that to make 'worms.' Even though plunging my dessert through a medical piston pump sounded intriguing, I decided instead to go ask Doamna Sidei for help. Doamna Sidei is a Ukrainian lady that lives nextdoor, but I rarely speak to her, which is a shame- it turns out she's a really nice lady. I asked her if she had anything I could use. Unfortunately, her pasta press had just broken, but she gladly gave me her garlic press and a whisk.

When I got back to my apartment, I soaked the garlic press in vinegar and washed it off, trying my best to scrub off the years of accumulated garlic smell. I quickly looked up how to whip cream, never having done it before. Seemed simple enough, so I got to work whipping. No one warned me that the cream would splatter everywhere, but I quickly found it out. Once it was sufficiently beaten, I put the cream in the fridge and started making worms. I grabbed the garlic press, gave it a little sniff (seemed passable), broke off little chunks of the puree and started pressing. The resultant substance appeared to be something between vermicelli and dog food, but it tasted pretty good. Since the puree already had sugar added, the only thing I added to it was the whipped cream. I made 5 portions-- for Doamna Sidei, Vasile, his wife, their daughter Betty and myself.

I brought the first cup over to Doamna Sidei along with the utensils she had let me borrow. She was a bit surprised, and promised me she'd try it, but I got the impression she didn't want to eat it in front of me, so I let her be. I then brought the rest of the cups over to Vasile's apartment, saying "I brought some worms for you all!"

Vasile took his cup, looked at it inquisitively, furrowing his brow and shifting his eyes from the cup to me. He slowly raised it up to his nose, and sniffed the contents hesitantly. I waited expectantly, wondering what he'd say. He tried it. I noticed a look of relief on his face, and he said, "it's not bad, but we'll see how I feel in the morning!" I retorted, "yeah, you gotta be careful about eating worms."

After Vasile encouraged them to go ahead, Betty and her mother tried their cups as well. After which, I was offered coffee. I don't usually drink coffee, but in this case I accepted and we sat around and talked for a while. My conversations with Vasile are usually very short, taking place in passing on the stairs or in the streets, and the majority of our exchanges tend to be devoted to practicing how to pronounce "well" (Me: 'Ciao Vasile, how are you?' Vasile: "Ciao Mike, I am wale." Vasile is quite keen on practicing his English, limited as it may be). But, my visit this evening allowed us to converse in more depth.

I only intended my visit to last a few minutes, but it ended up lasting a few hours and we talked about everything--from pesticides, to AIDS, to communism, to the gas crisis, to the Masonic order, to whether I'm Jewish, to why the Peace Corps is not a religious organization. In the course of the conversation, I even managed to explain to Vasile that Canada is not in fact part of the United States of America, nor are Mexico or Columbia. He believed that the Americas, as in the entire hemisphere, is the same thing as the USA. I assured him this is not the case, that even if it's called the United States of America, it doesn't mean it's a conglomeration of all the countries from across the continent. He had some trouble understanding the distinction between 'state' and 'country,' which in Romanian almost always mean the same thing. And then there was the matter of Washington DC, "is it a state? no? Is it the collective capital for all the states?" I tried my best to muster a limited explanation of federalism. In the end I think he got the idea, noting how different the American system is from Romania.

Eventually I got home, mentally drained. I haven't felt that exhausted since I my first months in Romania, when even the simplest conversations knocked the wind out of me. But, I was quickly revived by a dollop of fresh whipped cream from the fridge.

Graffiti in Belgrade

Found this as we were walking along the streets of Belgrade New Year's Eve
(Thanks to Sarah for the pic)

Yep, that's me they're talking about at the top of the front page! I've been trying to get the guys at the newspaper to publish something about "Project Lugosi" for some time now. I submitted a couple articles, but they were never published. The paper told me that it was impossible to publish my stuff since at the time the elections were going on and a lot of the space in the paper was devoted to political ads.

After the elections were over, one of the writers at Redesteptarea, Cristian Ghinea, called me to his office to talk about the project. He too is passionate about local history (in fact, he's written a book on the topic of Lugoj history and folklore). So I did a short interview with him, after which he gave me a copy of a documentary about Lugosi that was made by some people in Timisoara in 2007-- quite well-done by the way

After my interview with Ghinea, I looked expectantly at the papers every week to see if his piece had been published. But no. The holiday season had already befallen us, and work at the paper had been disrupted (as it was just about everywhere else in town).

However, just this past Thursday I met with an acquaintence on the street and he said, "I saw you in the paper!" "Oh yeah," I responded, "what about?" "Something about a legal infraction," he retorted with a twinkle in his eye, obviously joking. My hunch was that the piece had finally been published, so I went to the nearest news kiosk and bought a copy of Redesteptarea, and as soon as I saw that picture of Dracula at the top corner, my suspicions were confirmed. I'm glad it was finally published; hopefully more peolpe will now be aware of my intentions and perhaps it'll create a public discussion.

You can find the article HERE (in Romanian)

Here it is translated into English:

AN AMERICAN, TRACKING DRACULA OF LUGOJ
by Cristian Ghinea
01/08/09

The great Lugojean actor, Bela Lugosi is better known in America than in his hometown.

Michael Nork is an English teacher at "Coriolan Brediceanu" National College. Before arriving in Lugoj, he had heard of the city, knowing it as the birthplace of Bela Lugosi. But Michael was surprised to find that the actor is almost unknown here in town.

In the United States, Lugosi is a symbol of Hollywood; he is considered a pioneer of the horror genre and the creator of the Dracula persona for the film industry.

"To my surprise, many of my friends and colleagues in Lugoj said they'd never heard this name. It's something surprising because Bela Lugosi is quite famous in the United States. He was the Hollywood actor who defined our modern conception of Dracula and he was born right here in Lugoj. Being that Bela Lugosi is such an important personality where I come from, I naturally assumed that he would be just as important here in his hometown. Anyhow, I came to discover that this is not the case. And this might be because he left this region long ago and became famous there in the United States. But, even if he left at a young age, he never forgot from where he came, adopting the stage name Lugosi to remember his place of birth," says Michael Nork.

Finding Lugosi's childhood home

The idea to look for Lugosi's home came to Michael around Halloween. "Seeing vampire masks and the like, I thought of Dracula and, naturally, Lugosi," says Nork. Not knowing where to start, he asked a few locals if they knew where the home was. Since no one seemed to know, he postponed his search for a while. Then, he decided to try a Google search and discovered an article written by Gary D. Rhodes, a renowned professor of film and Lugosi biographer. Rhodes came to Lugoj in 2003 just to find the famous actor's birthplace. After talking with a local historian and consulting town records, Rhodes located the house at 6 Kirchengasse (today Bucegi Street), right next to the Roman Catholic church. "I've passed by this house many times without thinking for a second. There isn't even a plaque to recognize who was born there. To me it seems ironic that Lugosi, an actor with such international fame --probably the most important personality to come from Lugoj-- is practically unknown in this area. Maybe it's just my humble opinion, but I think that the memory of Bela Lugosi deserves at least some sort of recognition, whether a plaque on his home, or just this simple article. After all, it would be a shame if we forgot the man who never forgot Lugoj,” declares Nork.

Dracula deserves at least an exhibition and a memorial plaque

"In the first place, I’d like have an exhibition about the man and his career at the Pro Arte art gallery, and afterwards put it in the town’s history museum, when the renovations are complete,” hopes Michael Nork, adding that Gary Rhodes, director, documentarian, and film historian has promised to help Nork with making an exposition which would commemorate the career of this actor.

In this way, Lugoj will receive photos, original files and cinematographic materials. Here in Lugoj, Michael has benefited from the help of Ivan Bloch, director of the Rotary Club, who has guided Nork with his research.

"We've spoken with the mayor, Francisc Boldea, about putting a plaque on the house on Bucegi Street, and we got his initial approval. We hope that we’ll also have the consent of the current owner,” further remarks Nork.