For some reason I thought being away for the holidays would be easier the second time around…but then I realized that last year, I didn’t have a niece, my grandparents weren’t a year older, and I wasn’t missing a grand Christmas snow storm at home while it was slushy and 45° F here. I thought it would be possible to kind of ignore the fact that the holidays were happening and forget that my family was still carrying on all the traditions without me, which worked for a while because there was no snow and not many signs of Christmas in town (actually, the lights were strung but the Primaria didn’t have the money to turn them on). But then it snowed; and I was simply ecstatic, so naturally nothing else really mattered. However, that didn’t entirely blind me from all of the festive allusions; it didn’t keep me from noticing that the streets of Cȃmpulung were exploding with those coming home for Christmas (and how I wished I was one of them), it didn’t keep me from yearning for the comfort that only a grandma can provide when my elderly neighbor hugged me, and it didn’t keep me from hearing the regret in people’s voices after they asked if I’d be going home.
Despite my best Grinching efforts, the astonishing kindness of those around me simply wouldn’t allow it. My landlord put up a string of lights on my Bouse, a colleague gave me a real Christmas tree, a friend included me in her Romanian Christmas food preparations and a string of invitations from an expat, a student that I tutor, neighbors, colleagues, friends and a couple who don’t even celebrate Christmas but could sense that I was home sick. Three days of Christmas left me plump full of sarmale, salata de beouf, meats galore and the warmest heart a gal could ask for!
