Craciun In Campulung

Like almost everything else I’ve experienced in Romania, Christmas somehow just seemed to fall into place. In the weeks leading up to the big day, I attempted to fill the void with my own make shift holiday preparations but still found something to be missing. And then it happened…someone flipped the switch. With three days to go, it finally started to snow and Campulung Moldovenesc morphed into a winter wonderland and doubled its population overnight. Everyone working abroad or attending university in the big cities of Romania had come home. Although I knew no one returning, it was quite evident who they were through their fashion, material possessions and simply by the way they carried themselves. Unlike home, people did not put up Christmas lights and trees until the week of Christmas. There were not any Clark Griswold contenders but nevertheless I was excited to see the decorations (especially the Christmas trees that were set up outside) and everything was so much more beautiful with a soft layer of snow. My landlord even put up a strand of lights on my Bouse (half barn/half house)! I finally realized that it hadn’t felt like Christmas because I had been searching in all the wrong places. For some reason it didn’t occur to me earlier that all the tell tale signs would be different on the other side of the snow globe.

In my 10 months here, I’ve learned that Romanians love their holidays (I swear there is at least one Saint Day every week). This time of year is no different; there is a steady flow of celebrations from December 20th (Ignat – the great pig sacrifice) to January 7th (St. John). Since the beginning of December I have heard from other volunteers who have “gotten” the pleasure of attending one of these pig killings or even just hear the dreadful squealing from the tranquility of their own homes. When Romania joined the EU in 2007, officials attempted to make this custom illegal because it is considered cruel and inhumane. However, many Romanians, especially in rural regions (the majority of the country) were not happy to let go of the pig slaughtering tradition. For years, their ancestors have sacrificed pigs in order to feed their families at Christmas and throughout the rest of winter. Since the Spaniards are allowed to kill bulls in the arena, this traditional slaughtering is allowed by EU Standards to continue but only on Christmas and Easter. I won’t go into detail for the sake of your appetites but just know that no part of that pig goes unused. Then again, I simply can’t resist from saying that the pig skin, right after being blow torched (for hair removal purposes) with a little salt is a real crowd pleaser. Oh, and I did see a picture of bread crumbs marinating in a bucket of blood.

Instead of slicing and dicing on the 20th, I finally entered my first church in Campulung to listen to some Christmas carols. Of course I managed to first follow the wrong herd of people to an after funeral meal and almost got trapped into sitting down. It just wouldn’t be right if I didn’t take at least one wrong turn along the way.

December 23rd is when my Christmas spirits were finally uplifted. After my usual Romanian tutoring session and learning about the pagan celebration of Christmas (refer to previous post for explanation), my Romanian Counterpart invited me to her home. She and her daughter taught me how to make a variety of the traditional Christmas foods. The most important and delicious being Sarmale, a pork and rice mixture rolled in a boiled cabbage leaf. Little did I know, the rolling procedure would consist of me sticking my finger in what resembled the human tail pipe. Needless to say, there were many laughs to be had and as always, plenty was lost in translation. During our cooking escapade my counterpart’s colleague called to ask if I wanted a little Christmas tree so of course I jumped on that opportunity. There I was, walking home at 11pm in the snow with a 3ft pine tree in one hand and a tree stand in the other, grinning like an idiot. It was at that moment that I was finally okay with being away from the traditions that I have known for the past 26 years. Upon arrival at the Bouse, I proudly set up my first Christmas tree of my own and decorated it with random objects, complete with a post-it note Angel!

Christmas Eve brought another snowy day full of new experiences. I headed back to my Counterpart’s house for a night of caroling. They couldn’t believe that I had never been before but I explained that they would soon hear why. Caroling is almost like our Trick-or-Treating in that kids go door to door singing and in turn receive treats or money. When adults go, they get invited in for drinks and something to eat. We went to four houses of their family and friends, where we stayed at each place for about an hour. Our group of five sang a Romanian carol and then We Wish You A Merry Christmas. It was a long night of Romanian but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I learned that whistling on the street is not polite and ladies even run the risk of enhancing their breast size (on that note, I’d recommend the Itty Bitty Titty Committee to start eating their bread crusts immediately!) Afterwards, we went back to their house to open presents. When I finally returned home at 1am, I was extremely grateful to be able to talk to my family (all 20+) via skype during their Christmas Eve Celebration. Although it was a struggle to get through all the hearing aid malfunctions and confusions of how this skype business worked, it was nice to see some of the family I haven’t seen since I left home.

Mos Craciun brought me even more snow on Christmas morning. Once again, I returned to my Counterpart’s house for Christmas dinner, the one I got to help prepare two days before. I learned that I should not sit on the corner of a table because that would most likely prevent me from becoming married. No wonder my mother opted for the round kitchen table. Either way, it must have been faulty. Shortly after eating, I went to a second Christmas dinner at another Romanian colleague’s home. After a near death choking experience on a fish bone, the real death experience began…And her name was Palinka! A homemade alcohol distilled twice that I like to refer to as the devil’s juice.

After a few day Palinka induced rest, I started seeing a variety of traditional “shows” as I walked through town. The first one I saw on the Platou was Plugosorul meaning the little plow. There were oxen pulling a plow that carried what I thought looked like a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. Additionally there were several men dressed in traditional clothing playing a variety of pipes and long wooden bugles called Bucium. Technically, I believe these giant instruments were actually Tulnic because they were not curved. Nevertheless, they were traditionally played by shepards to guide their sheep and dogs, as well as for communication throughout the mountainous region. Then of course there were two men cracking whips like their lives depended on it. This traditional procession is meant to bring good fortune in the New Year. On a few other occasions I observed the traditional dances of the Capra (goat) and Ursul (the bear), also intended as a wish for bountiful crops and healthy animals. All of these customs are carried out by males and I found it intriguing to see so many younger boys carrying on the traditions.

New Year’s Eve was a fairly low key evening of cards and champagne with another PCV, Carol. Luckily we got to watch the “fireworks” and debauchery on the Platou from Chris’s apartment above for I think we probably would have lost an eye had we been down below. After freezing ourselves hanging out the window, watching fireworks and eating ice cream, we thought we’d really bring in the New Year with style…plugging in a second electric heater (the apartment’s only source of heat). No such luck; we blew a fuse, all the power went out and we couldn’t get access to the fuse box until morning. This is the life!

A few days later, the celebrations continued. Walking up my street at 6pm I was almost run over by several of my adult neighbors on sleds. They enticed me to join them in the street for a bonfire, drinks, dancing and sledding. This sledding danger level definitely presents stiff competition for the Extreme Sledding my family does every year on Christmas Eve. They all use the old school wooden sleds that sit about a foot off the ground with metal runners. Needless to say, they really move on a pure ice winding road down the mountain. Metal fences, large rocks, people and the sporadic car all posed potential injurious hazards. However, if a car did attempt to pass, they would all dive onto the ground to create a human barricade. They would not let the car pass until the driver had gotten out and joined in the fun for a good period of time. Bar none, my favorite memory of the evening was doing the Hora into the older neighbor lady’s house. We didn’t even stop to knock! I can’t even fathom partaking in a similar event at home.

I think it would be safe to say winter has finally arrived…apparently they follow that whole winter solstice thing, as it immediately began snowing on Dec 21st. Those fur jackets and hats I’ve always associated with Russia and Eastern Europe are truly in full effect. At home, winter camping continues. I’m learning that I have to keep the soba going all day to keep my room at at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Cooking and bathing have become more of a chore because their respective rooms are just above freezing (no heat). It’s nice I don’t have to worry about putting food away but I have found I need to put my fresh produce in the fridge if I don’t want them getting a little frosty. I’ve learned to make my coffee and tea quite a bit hotter so it’s not cold within 8 minutes. Other than that, I have accepted the fact that I have turned into my grandfather as I religiously wear a full set of long underwear at all times.

Today the ice finally won. Low and behold, it got above freezing so there was a little melting action taking place. As I started my walk home before dusk, my foot took a gamble of its own, throwing me flat on my back into a giant puddle. And yes, there was even a splash. Completely soaked and looking as if I soiled myself, I made the 20 minute jaunt through town to my humble abouse. I should have taken better note when I saw that girl ice skating down the street last week. In efforts to ward off hypothermia (or simply the fact that January is almost over), I finally took down my Christmas tree, cutting it into small pieces and burning them in my soba. I think the day that I stop asking myself if this is really happening will be the day that I know it’s time to go back home.