Lord knows who, sometimes I wonder if it really is real. This past week I contracted the black lung and it just could not be solved. Finally, I was able to receive an actual real prescription from the Peace Corps Doctor, so I asked my counterpart to go to the pharmacy with me to ensure I was not given testosterone pills or something of the alike. She gratefully accepted but first wanted to stop at her doctor to see what else I should be doing to improve my health. After her doctor gave us a list of additional medications I should get, she stated that if these did not cure my illness that I probably had mushrooms growing in my chest. Now the image of fungi sprouting in my lungs inevitably made me giggle, and produced the everlasting perma-grin. When later discussing this with another fellow volunteer, she expressed concern that with the influx of gnomes in Romania that if these mushrooms had been harvesting themselves for quite some time that they in fact may be hosting gnomes. You can only imagine my life flashed before my eyes at the grave possibility of contracting Gnomes Disease. Now, I don’t mean to mock anyone intentionally but how funny would it be if I brought a mushroom into the doctor and said, “Look what I finally coughed up.”
The following day, feeling refreshed and noticing a significant shrinkage in my mushrooms, I was ready for a little change. Of course, you always start with the hair. Truthfully, not only has it not been cut since before I left but it had come time to part with the perm (AKA the Loose Wave for all those judging me for getting a perm in 2008.) Occasionally, the fun part of being a PC volunteer is being resourceful. Thus, I worked with what I had; a fellow volunteer willing to cut and the Bandage Scissors that came in the PC issued First Aid Kit. I only had three stipulations; cut up to my shoulders, no drastic layers leading to the ever glorious Euro-mullet and absolutely no rat tail. We had gone out behind the Bloc building, so while Mary cut away I sadly watched adults dumpster dive with their children. I became so intrigued and excited for a dad and son, who found a few old tires and loaded them onto their rickety cart that I lost track of what was going on with my hair. Before I new it, I had the most severe inverted wedge that would even show up Posh Spice. We were able to shorten the ridiculously long front but what startled me most was the back that was much closer to my head than my shoulders. When I later got home, I still was not a fan of the inverted wedge/Bob with which I was left, so I took matters into my own hands. A decision I immediately regretted. I thought if I just evened things out so the front was the same length as the back, the situation would be remedied. Unlike Jason Mraz, I did not have the remedy. My hair is up to my chin and slightly resembles the mushrooms in my chest. Game over.In order to get away from the mushrooms that seemed to be overtaking my life, I went out for a walk. I headed to the northern outskirts of town, where I haven’t really ventured before. I crossed Campulung’s main street, the train tacks, Moldova River and took a dirt road through a neighborhood that more resembled life that I associate with the word “village.” As the sheepdogs got bigger and the cow pies more frequent, I immediately knew I was on one of those roads that only people who lived there went down for everyone gave me the look of “one of these things doesn’t belong.” When a third old woman asked where I was going, I finally decided to attempt a conversation. This Bunica only came up past my waist and was loaded down with two large bags. She was too cute to pass up so I offered to help carry her bags home. We continued down the narrow dirt road, while she intermittently held onto my arm or put hers around my waist. Bunica found it amusing to tell all the neighbors we passed that I was American and I didn’t understand Romanian, so I smiled while they most likely had a good laugh at my expense. By the time we reached her house she had made two things very clear; that I was crazy for being here by myself and that she did not approve that I had nothing to cover my ears (the current would clearly make me ill.) Before going our separate ways she made sure that I wanted to have children and that I did indeed have a scarf at home to cover my ears. Although, I didn’t comprehend half of what she talked to me about, I still enjoyed myself thoroughly. This was the type of experience I imagined when signing up for the Peace Corps. Like life anywhere, the wider array of emotions, and the more ups and downs one can experience in a 24 hour period, the prouder you are to call it a day. A day in the life of…
