Christmas Ornaments in a Shop Window

The Church in Zalau

Dual Thanksgivings.

Dual Thanksgivings. Nov. 28, 2005

Some of our Friends and Family back home were worried that we’d miss Thanksgiving. We had two!

The first came as an invitation to join some Americans here in Cluj for a Thursday feast. We had never met our hosts so we came armed with Snickers Bars and a Veggie tray as our contribution. The food was excellent, the friendship warm and the only Romanian in the group of twenty, we knew. It was a very pleasant surprise to run into Simona. She first approached us back in August as we shared the same bench in the Square in front of the Mathias statue. Our paths keep crossing and we are pleased that they do.

Thursday dinner was excellent. It seemed a little strange to be having a holiday meal when everyone else was going about the day as if it were nothing special at all. Romanians do not celebrate Thanksgiving but they’ve all heard and wonder about it. Simona had spent nine years in the States so she knew. If any of our holidays transfer to Eastern Europe, I hope it’s Thanksgiving and not Halloween that does.

On Saturday Nancy and I traveled via Maxi-Taxi 80 kilometers to the North of Cluj to the small city of Zalau. Maxi-Taxis are, usually, fairly new vans that seat about 12 or 14. The ones that go from Cluj to Zalau do not have a set schedule but wait until they have a full load before departing. It costs about $3.50 for the hour and twenty minute drive. No rest stops.

In Zalau we were hosted by three Peace Corps volunteers from our core group – ROM20, Alan and Autumn Henderson and Chris Puckett. The three of them had invited all the other 60 volunteers from our group and were a little disappointed that only about 25 showed up, but it seemed like a great turn out to me and it was good to see so many of the people with whom we had spent all summer struggling to learn Romanian. And the food was great.

I was designated carver perhaps because I was the only one old enough to know how. There were only two turkeys to feed all of us Americans and an almost equal number of Romanian guests. At least 45 people, but the turkeys were so big that I left half of one uncarved. The bigger of the two weighed over 22 kilos. I have never seen a bird so big. And it was fresh, as having given up its life only the day before. Turkey is not a popular meal in Romania, but it is not unheard of, and Autumn had found a farm willing to hand raise these two birds specially for our Thanksgiving dinner.

Everything was excellent. Zalau is the home of the only putt putt golf course in the country – a gift from a former Peace Corps volunteer – and so they held a tourney. Nancy declined entry so I had to do my best to represent the ‘senior circuit’. And if I hadn’t choked on the final playoff hole, I’d have had a chance to take all the marbles, but as it worked out, third prize was the best prize of all – a jar of Jiffy Peanut Butter.

We had a good time, saw a new part of the Country, and laughed with friends. On Sunday evening we hosted some of the party as they came to Cluj before departing for various sites further a field. Eight of us found the good Chinese restaurant in this city. It really was pretty good, unlike the other two that we’ve tried.

The next holiday is December 1st. The Romanian equivalent to Independence Day. We’ve been told there are fireworks. Not sure where yet, but if the weather is good, we’ll find out.

The Cathderal in Cluj

Bread and Bucuresti

Last week Nancy and I had reason to travel to Bucuresti for I needed some minor medical attention. We had not been to the capitol before and had heard conflicting views. Our judgment of center city was quite favorable. The streets were busy and the traffic congested naturally, but the avenues were wide and the people mostly friendly. Even in the cold November drizzle the old buildings held charm. There appeared much construction underway and a vitality was apparent.

We did avoid the urban sprawl of the newer parts of the city, and avoided the apartment blocks and the smog. We were pleased with what we saw but were there too short a time to take in the many theatre and musical offerings. I enjoyed a ‘real Chinese’ dinner, something we hadn’t found elsewhere in the country, as both Mexican and Chinese restaurants are not authentic.

It’s a long journey to Bucuresti from Cluj, seven hours on the fast train. I’m not sure when we’ll have reason to go again, but I think we both prefer our provincial city of Cluj and its surrounding hills to the flatness of the Capitol.

Now I wish to write on the subject of the bread and other foods.

My mother used to bake homemade bread. Every Sunday morning she’d knead the dough then let it rise while we were in Church. In the afternoon the house would be filled with that wonderful aroma of baking bread. She’d make four loaves and leave enough dough for a round of cinnamon rolls. The bread was coarse and crusty, the rolls sweet and sticky. My grandfather who lived to be a hundred, refused store bought bread, so the baking was my mother’s Sunday ritual and our delight.

Nancy bakes bread on occasion, but it’s a different bread, much more light and refined. We both tried to get the recipe from mother but it was never written down and now seems lost, but the breads here in Romania are much like the ones I remember from Childhood. The bread kiosks are everywhere. Our local one is no more than 100 meters outside the door and down the hill. They sell a football like loaf, with a stiff crust and, when fresh, a fluffy interior, softer than I remember Mother’s used to be. The truck delivers to the kiosks several times a day and often the loaves retain some of the oven warmth. I prefer my loaf uncut, and the bread lady hands it to you without a bag so I either carry it like a quarterback with his ball or put it in my punga.

The bread comes without any preservatives so in a few days it loses its bounce, but that first day, sliced and with or without butter, it’s wonderful eating. Long ago Sunday evenings used to be a light dinner, the fresh home made bread and stewed tomatoes. We can get that same freshness now nearly any day of the week. The cost is about 50 cents. I had intended to write more, but now I’ve become sufficiently hungry so I’ll go slice myself a piece, add a little gem (jam) and enjoy a snack. Remind me to tell you in the future about the chocolates and pastries.

Still Smiling in Cluj

Parkul Centru - second story

The picture above is to show that yes we are still alive and smiling. I do look thinner and older but Nancy looks good, don't you think? The following is a fictional story, the Englishman does not exist, but everything else is accurate. Hope you enjoy it. After the story there should be a picture of flowers. These are from Albert Bela's greenhouse in Luna de Sus and are set to go to market on All Saints Day.

Bela is the father of my two young friends pictured on an earlier blog. He is Magyar so his names are turned around - Albert is his family name.

Parkul Centru

II

The lake was in the southwest corner of the park. Separate from the lake a pedestrian walk ran from west end to east, broad and gravelly. It was flat and a perfect surface for joggers. On weekends a fellow guided a pony wagon and sold rides to the children. On each side of the walkway Chestnut trees grew.

I wonder at these trees. In America the chestnut has disappeared from our forests felled by the blight. When I was young there was a mighty horse chestnut that grew outside the north porch. Scientists used to come and poke around the tree wondering why it hadn’t succumbed to the disease. We moved and I not sure what became of the tree, died from natural causes or destroyed in building an office park. Perhaps it is a different variety, but here in Romania the chestnuts flourish. During the first days of school the nuts are bursting from their protective, spiky husks and fall to the ground, bright pebbles for school children to collect and examine.

A British gentleman comes often to the park on sunny days. He takes a spot on one of the benches flanking the walking path. I say he is British, but that is an assumption. He strolls from the British library at the consulate office, located cross the street facing the park, and he has the air of an Englishman, the way he carries his umbrella, his suit of clothes and his book. He prefers the mysteries. If it were a warm day he sits in the shade and reads, if it a cool day he finds a bench in the sunlight. He reads for roughly half an hour then marks his page with a bookmark and heads, I presume, home.

I have heard him say “Buna Ziua” on occasion but I have not noticed that he has ever engaged in conversation with passers-by. He is content to read his book and enjoy the weather.

No one ever gave the dog a name. He was a stray, living on the edge of society. Romania has a million stray dogs, but the city of Cluj has done a fair job in clearing the streets, yet there remain a few. This dog without a name was one. He had a bright eye and easy manner. He was a medium sized animal, though slim, like all the strays. He was black and inherited no sign of breed or distinction except for his intelligence. He liked the park. He had lived here all summer, alone, finding sustenance from the ice cream wrappers and various other debris. Because he had the wisdom to stay out of people’s way, keeping just beyond their circle of rejection, they left him alone, sometimes tossing him their unwanted tidbits.

What it was that attracted the dog to the Englishman, I can not say. The man never had food so had nothing to offer him. I never saw the man coax the dog, or speak to it either in Romanian or in English. As the end of summer approached the dog perhaps sensed that he’d need to find other arraignments for surviving the Transylvanian winter. Perhaps the Englishman had a particular scent that attracted the dog. I can not say, but I do know for some reason the dog adopted the man.

It was a slow adoption. On the days the gentleman came for his read, the dog would appear and either sit or lay close by whichever bench the man chose for his leisure. On each succeeding day the dog moved closer to the man. At first the gentleman paid little heed, only to interrupt his reading to be sure that the dog was no threat. He had never been attacked by the strays but he had heard stories.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth afternoon that he took full account of the dog. I suspect he wondered why the same dog seemed to hang around. I saw him put aside his novel and sit and watch the animal for some minutes. He said nothing. The dog said nothing. The man picked up his book again, finished his appointed time and got up to leave. In doing so, he looked back at the dog. I could see the dog return the gaze. I’ve known enough dogs to imagine that mournful look the beast gave the man. Finally, the man retreated from the park. The dog stayed put for some time as if waiting for the man’s return.

The gentleman did not have a pattern of reading every day. Often there were gaps of two or three days. I never saw him at all on the weekends. I saw the dog but I did not see the man.

It was a day after the night rains when the Englishman next showed. The earth smelled clean and new. The rain had brought down more of the nuts and dried leaves. The man had picked an all together splendid day to enjoy the last sparse shade of the chestnuts. He pulled out a napkin to wipe the bench of its droplets of water before sitting. I watched him and I watched his dog.
The dog moved closer than it had been in previous days. This day it sat directly next to the bench in such a manner that its head made a near perfect arm rest. He looked straight ahead, almost as if it too were reading some imaginary book.

The man tried reading but found that his concentration was effected by his guest. He put the book in his lap. He turned to look down at the dog. The dog turned to look up at him.
“I used to have a dog, you know.”

Dogs can’t answer directly, their conversation takes a more roundabout form, but it was clear that the animal was listening.

“When I was a lad I had a dog.”

I wondered if the dog had ever before had such an extended discussion with a non dog before. He seemed perfectly at ease, all rapt attention. The conversation was in English. Perhaps the dog would have preferred Romanian, but it seemed content enough to listen.

The gentleman must have found that audience agreeable as well for he continued.
“We shared many fond times, Kanga and I. I named him after my favorite character in Winnie-the-Pooh.”

The man said everything slowly to the dog. I doubt that it was because he felt the dog slow to understand, rather it was the way the memories awakened in his mind, slowly.

“He was a good dog and the day that he was hit by a neighbor’s car was one of the saddest of my childhood.”

The man paused a long time now. The dog sat waiting for the rest of the story. It did not come, at least, not that day. The man picked up his reading, lasted only a few more lines, closed his book and departed.

I looked over at the dog sitting still after the man had left. I wondered if the canine thought that he was making progress or if he was wasting his time with this gent that spoke a foreign language that the dog didn’t understand at all.

The next day the gentleman came back, but not with a book in his hands, but rather a paper bag. He looked around as he walked, searching for his dog. It was his dog now, that’s what the bag signified. He sat upon the same bench as he had the day before, but as yet there was no sign of the dog. I could see from the slightest slump in an otherwise straight shoulder that the man was disappointed not to find his dog. He sat there for a while, considering whether to walk the park searching or not.

I’m sure the dog was testing him. After all these days of gradually gaining the trust of the man, he wanted to test that trust. I imagine the dog had a motto, “Easily adopted, as easily dismissed.” I don’t know how to say that in Romanian. I believe that the dog did.

The man sat a full fifteen minutes with no dog. He had given up the idea of strolling through the park, I believe because it would have seemed undignified to be searching for a stray. As I watched him I saw his countenance brighten. He had seen his dog, and his dog, as if to make up for his tardy arrival, came bounding towards the man.

As he got closer to the bench, the dog slowed, then stopped and stood. The gentleman patted his head.

“I shall have a name for you. You are not a Kanga, there was only one, besides you don’t look anything like a Kanga.”

He leaned and petted the black head. The dog closed his eyes and I imagine it said to itself, “So this is how it feels.”

The man continued, “My favorite character from the mysteries is Constable Perkins. He is a wily and intelligent fellow. I shall call you Perkins, if you don’t mind.”

The dog hadn’t ever been called a name before. He’d been yelled at and called unpleasant things, but those aren’t names. “Perkins,” the dog said to himself.

The gentleman reached into his bag and produced a dog biscuit and held it for Perkins. The dog hesitated. He’d never been offered anything like this before and wasn’t sure what he was suppose to do with it.

“Go ahead. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

Perkins looked up at the man, then took a deeper smell of the treat. He opened his mouth and grabbed the bone but made no attempt to eat it. He simply held it in his mouth. His saliva must have dripped the taste of it onto his tongue yet still he held it.

Reaching again into the bag the man pulled out an aerosol can.

“This is for the fleas. We mustn’t bring any of the fleas home with us. Once we get home we’ll have a proper bath in the tub, but now we’ll use this so that none of the buggers will follow us home.”

This was all foreign to the dog. Even if it had all been spoken in Romanian, the meaning would have been lost for lack of an experience. The dog stood there, his biscuit in his mouth. The man took the aerosol and sprayed up and down and around Perkins, careful not to get any near his eyes or biscuit filled mouth. When he was done he reached again into the bag and withdrew a slip collar and a leash.

The dog remained still as the man slipped the collar around the treat and over its head. When the collar was properly around the neck, he snapped the clasp of the leash to the collar.
“Come along, Perkins. Let’s go get a proper bath.”

As they departed the park they walked past me. I would swear I heard the dog say to himself as they passed, his treat still uneaten, “Perkins. Sunt Perkins.” I smiled for he said ‘Perkins’ with a Romanian accent.

Flowers for All Saints Day

Along the Cold River

All Saints Night

All Saint's Day

Romanian Halloween is mostly a bust. The local TV showed some costumed Americans dancing around a bonfire by the old wall of the city, but we saw not one trick or treater. Romanian All Saints Day, the 1st of November, though is a special occasion.

During the day and throughout the evening people go to the cemeteries and lay flowers, greens and candles on the family gravestones. I had written last summer of the planted flowers at the gravestones. Now, during the last warm days of autumn, summer flowers are gone, replaced by dried stems and leaves. On All Saints Day, though, the flowers come back and are accented by candles.

In the afternoon Nancy and I strolled through the old cemetery down town. At dark we walked up the hill to the Zorilor cemetery to light candles of our own. We had no grave to decorate, so we picked an untended headstone and lit a candle there. We hope that Stella’s ghost appreciated our candle.

Part of our reason for joining the Peace Corps was to experience a different culture. Wenesday we took in a basketball at the Sala de Sport. The star of the local team is from DePaul University in Chicago. The team played a club from Israel and won by a basket. Last night we went to see and hear an Opera at the Hungarian State Opera House. It was Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. The story is set in Japan about an American Navel Officer and his Japanese wife, written by an Italian, sung in Italian, performed in Cluj, Romania at the Hungarian Opera House.

Tonight we’re off to here Mozart played by the Transylvanian Philharmonic.