Venturing to the Village

Regardless of where I am, I always seem to get a sense of nostalgia around this time of year. The time when fall gradually fades into winter and culminates with the holiday season. For me, it has always been about reviving the essence of family.

One year ago today, my godfather was driving back from working in Alaska and died unexpectedly. Finally, when his life had come together, it was taken away. My heart goes out to my Aunt, my godmother, my confidant. Not just today but every day. I love you Missy, if only there were more people like you.

Thus, my tiny village family experience this past weekend couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. However, that was not the original plan, it never is with me. Sometimes I feel as if I frequently get myself into strange predicaments but perhaps that’s just what I seek. Either way, this time around things were simply lost in translation. Originally (or so I thought) my friend invited me to a festival for a few hours in Frasin, a small town 30 km away. We were to meet there on Saturday, so I arrived via the only conventional way, which shall go unspoken for the sake of my mother’s sanity. Astonishingly, I went to the right place at the right time and found the right person. But to no avail, there was not a festival in sight. It turned out that we were actually going back to her village Doroteia and I would not be returning until the following day, which I could not argue because there was no way I’d find my way back out of BFE (Grandma, scuze but that means Bum F*#@ing Egypt.)

Back at Geta’s house, I met her husband and two adorable children. I’m pretty sure the 4 year old thought I was slightly MR because I was not able to understand everything she said. Nor could she understand why I did not have children and not once did I surpass the perpetual “but why?” game. Nevertheless, we became friends and played all afternoon. She even insisted on sleeping with me, which was fine until I experienced her night terrors sporadically throughout the night. That was not exactly in the sleepover arrangement but luckily I was able to calm her quickly with my inner chi.

In the late afternoon, we went to a small family “name” day celebration. It was St. Gabriel day, so anyone with a similar name celebrates; it’s almost like a second birthday. The four course meal was delicious but they kept making me eat more and as a result I think my meat intake has been satisfied for the remainder of 2008. Envision a giant meat and cheese tray, five layers deep…okay, now remove all the cheese, any form of garnishes and all thinly sliced deli meat…and replace with all forms of pork imaginable. Throw in a splash of mustard and you’ve got yourself a mouth-watering delectable appetizer treat. As long as were on the topic, all three men in attendance were missing a finger. An odd observation indeed but one that ironically symbolized the harsh demands of village life.

Additionally, it was interesting to discover that within each family there was at least one member working abroad in other EU countries, particularly Germany, Spain and Italy. However, this does not come as a surprise since 10% of Romanian’s population is working abroad and sending money home but it was simply more prevalent in the small community. Consequently, many low paying jobs such as construction are left open and are now slowly being filled by immigrants from Asia. Despite the need to fill these vast openings, the government is hesitant to grant visas to these immigrants because they are concerned of the race issues that could ensue.

On Sunday we walked through the village and ended at the farm of Geta’s parents. They had several animals including two terrifyingly large pigs, sheep, dogs, horses and cows, one of which I milked. The poor heifer was desperately in need of some Utter Cream. Afterwards, I was fed one of the best meals I’ve had in Romania and much to my surprise, it included sheep meat. Everything I ate there was completely home grown, raised, all natural, what have you. I was sent home with the largest bag of pickled vegetables for the winter. They also gave me fresh yogurt and milk, which has tasted the least cow teatish out of all the milk I’ve had thus far. All very exciting for a suburban gal but what astonished me the most was their gracious hospitality and treating me as one of the family. Although I couldn’t have been much more foreign to the experience, it provided a much needed sense of belonging. Unfortunately, this year it will be difficult to revive the essence of my own family but at least I now have the hope of reinventing one.