Filling Voids

Walking through the streets I use to see people who I could have sworn was someone from home; and since I often had the time and was always in need of a friend I took the next step past the double take, which of course, would rationally be stalking. However, one can only stalk so many people and join in random funeral processions out of curiosity for so long…so I’ve finally wrapped my head around the concept that the coincidence rate of bumping into a previous acquaintance in the same small logging town in the Eastern Carpathian mountains is quite low and frankly, not reasonable thinking of a sane mind. Not wanting my new (potential) friends to think that I didn’t possess a sound psyche; I learned to semi-surrender the stalking and simply continue the conversation with myself, “oh, there’s the Romanian version of Ralphie or crazy Aunt Linda.”

Today I started thinking of how I’ve replaced those faux-friend sightings with new faces and images. It’s kind of strange how some of the hardest things to leave will be the ideas and people that filled the voids of what I missed the most and had the hardest time adapting to when I first came to Romania. This only further strengthens my belief that to quit an addiction or habit, it must be replaced with another. Yet, some relationships and aspects are irreplaceable, so I adapted, stretching my emotional and mental creativity. I may not have done many things right or accomplished much but I found what I needed to survive…and sometimes, they even found me.

My neighboring bunica was one of two people who sought me out. Okay, one of three but that third man might be a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. The other was a neighbor girl. Literally, they were the only two people in the past 2 years who made that first move to introduce themselves to me. Those two individuals helped fulfill the grandmotherly and sisterly bonds that have always been an important constant in my life. I’m sure bunica and girl will never know how important of a role they have played.

As I’m starting to say goodbyes, there seems to be a surprising theme developing; a request that I send them a wedding invitation. The first time it happened, I responded, “But I’m not getting married.” Bunica says, “No, when you go back to America of course,” as if upon re-entry to the country I will be assigned a fiancée. After spending some time in another culture, I’ve gotten quite good at stifling a smirk and just agreeing to the topic at hand…whether it be that I’m going to freeze my ovaries because I’m not wearing slippers, fall ill to the curent or that Palinka really is incredibly healthy for you. So I agree to send Bunica my wedding invitation, only to realize that it wasn’t particularly because she wanted to celebrate this occasion with me. The request was more so a threat, making sure that I do in fact get married because what else could I possibly do next.

As I’m starting to pack…okay, I’ll be honest…I started consolidating months ago…thanks to my ever trusty soba, my Peace Corps manuals were the first to go. Nevertheless, the bookshelf on my porch has become the rack of my unwanteds and even some of the wanteds that just aren’t going to be making the cut for the 2 bag limit home. It’s quite obscene what I have amassed in the short time I’ve been here…not so much the amount but the absurdity of the what. Regardless, I have shamelessly started leading my visitors to this enchanted shelf to see what they would like to take off my hands. This activity has quickly become my new favorite…as I demonstrate the gloriousness of post-it flags, shower caps and decorative holiday oddities. Today, my landlady asked when my “store” would be open again.