The Goddess of Imperfect Things

Why does she even bother?
While browsing through past lj posts I realized something awful, I am painting a very very unfair picture of my experience. These last couple months I have been struck with severe homesickness and the moments of frustration I experienced just compounded it. It’s really not that bad, but the traumatic stories are always the more interesting. Dammit, post something positive for once you crotchety old bitch.

I’ll start with my drama kids. I adore these children. The class I am teaching is an optional extra credit course, so I only get the ones who really want to be there and are genuinely interested in theatre. Romanian schools are focused almost entirely on academics alone. Although that creates some truly brilliant students (most of them speak at least three languages, all speak at least two) it leaves the majority without not only any creative outlet, but also a feeling that they don’t have any creativity whatsoever.

When I started teaching the class I was faced with a group of energetic, but shy and kids who sincerely believed they didn’t have any talent. They were scared of the assignments. I would give a small lecture on what I was trying to teach them, give them some examples, go through a few warm-ups and tell them to create a scene based on the lessons I was giving (pantomime, character development, creating an environment, etc). Only to be met with protests of “But, we can’t do that, can’t you give us more instructions or a theme?” I would stand my ground and tell them firmly, yes, yes they could do just that. I believed in them. Guess what, they not only met my challenge every step of the way, they would exceed my expectations.

Initially, when I would give feedback on the scenes (I would praise their strengths and tell them things they should work on) I would be met with defensive and protests over my comments. I patiently let them state their case and then point out that they couldn’t know what they were doing wrong if no one told them. Eventually, this sunk in. Now my feedback is met with serious looks of concentration and mental notes to work on that in the next assignment.

Only once, was I really, really hard on my class. The first week I introduced improvisation, they were awful, and I told them point blank that they were. Why? Because I had worked with these kids long enough to know that no one was trying, no one was listening and they were simply screwing around. I looked every kid in the eye as I said “I hold you all to high standards because I know you can meet them”. The next week (the class meets for two hours once a week) I was blown away by the improvement, and I told them so. I realized, all they needed to here was an authority figure say “I know you can do this”.

Now, I can put a few kids up on stage and say “give me a scene”, and they show me why I love to teach this class. Is it Shakespeare? No, it’s not. Is it creative and spontaneous and does it display how much they can accomplish when given half a chance? Yes, every time. One week a girl repeatedly told me “I can do it, I can’t do it” over a warm up exercise that teaches people how to stay focused during a scene. I put both my hands on her shoulders and said “Yes, you can. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here”. She hasn’t uttered those words since. In fact, no one says them anymore.

That’s why I do this.

Who is that bitch?
I’m turning into a social mutant, really, I am. I have no idea what has come over me lately. Yeah, sure, I may have always been a bit high strung (shut up!) and perhaps had a teensy oonsy bit of a short fuse (not a word from any of you), but Green Goddess on a Cracker, I was never rude! I made a cab driver cry. Yeah, you read that right.

How on earth, you ponder, could our dear, sweet, innocent, docile little Imperfect Goddess bring a big tough cabby to tears? Try being a grade a sick of being ripped off bitch who screams at the guy. Okay, maybe “screams” is a tad harsh, but I certainly was, shall we say, stern.

The story: A site mate of mine hosts a Thanksgiving dinner for the Americans and several bazillion (okay, 30, but after a few glasses of hot wine, it felt like a bazillion) Romanians at his place of work. The Imperfect Goddess has never been to said place of work so she writes down the address, bundles herself and a turkey into a taxi and attempts to head for the destination. You all know that due to the Hungarian versus Romanian debacle, my language skills leave much to be desired. I mange to get around though. After relaying the address to the cabby, I sit back and let him do his job, or that’s what I thought I could do. He instantly hits several long and windy back roads. My perfectly plucked eyebrows begin to sink a little. After a short, albeit, scenic tour, he proceeds to pull into another taxi stand to chat with a buddy and ask for directions. Picture eyebrows completely fusing together at this point as I yell “Hello! METER!” and point furiously at the electronic money eater ticking away. A few more windy roads, some frustrated noises and sighs emanating from my pouty lips and all the eyebrow plucking is for naught as they permanently become a Frida like uni-brow. He asks me if I am alright and I snap “Sunt bine, mergeti” in a voice that could peal paint off the walls. At this point, the cabby asks which direction my destination is, I literally yell in a thoroughly exasperated and damn near postal voice “Nu stiu!”, you can probably figure out what that means. The cabby then switches off the meter, shrugs helplessly and begins to apologize profusely as he tears up a little. I sink into the back seat trying desperately to figure out at what moment I became a blatant see you next Tuesday. We drive around for several more minutes, off the meter, trying to find the address with him apologizing the entire time in broken English and explaining he just moved here. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Yes, I left a generous tip and a few words of encouragement.

My defense: You all have no idea how many times I have been ripped off. How many times I have seen dollar signs reflected in the eyes of people who looked at me. How many times I have had to guard my purse, watch my change and bicker with someone trying to overcharge me. It really starts to wear on you after awhile. You begin to bristle at the slightest inkling of rip offtage and instantly go on the defensive because being nice, doesn’t get you anywhere but broke fast. I just hope you all can recognize me when I get home, and I don’t mean the new hair cut and color.

Thank you for shopping with us, now sod off
Where to start with the shenanigans that passes for “customer service” in Romania? Regardless of how you get treated (we will go into that in a moment) be prepared to be followed around every time you enter any kind of store, on any given day. There must be some obscene shop lifting problem here, because every store has a few employees on hand who do nothing but follow customers around and stare at them during their entire shopping excursion. Apparently, everyone steals here.

That aside, “customer service” (still using that term loosely) falls into two different extremes. Extreme one is what I call “Bitter Angry Salesclerk” (BASC). BASC actively resents that customers have the actual audacity to not only come into the store, but also attempt to shop. This forces BASC to do the job they were hired to do, a horrible faux paus that you WILL PAY FOR! If you need any help whatsoever, you must first spend several minutes either tracking BASC down or staring fixedly at her while she yammers into her cell phone about what her child/spouse/mother/dog did that morning. When BASC finally realizes that the customer glaring at her is decidedly not going to go away, she grudgingly turns to you and barks “spuneti” (speak). Every request is met with a sigh and an eye roll, and even though you know you are pronouncing things correctly, they will cop an attitude over even the teeniest accent and make you feel like an idiot. This process is especially painful at stores which are not self service.

The other extreme is known as “Turbo Salesman On Crack” (TSOC). There you are, innocently wandering into a store to casually browse through the selection of shoes, handbags and clothing (that no matter what size the shirt says, they are ALL designed for emaciated 12 year old boys). Within mere seconds you are pounced on TSOC. “Poftiti? Poftiti? Poftiti?” (Basically the polite version of spuneti). Always asked three times. You ever so politely explain through words or pantomime that you are just browsing. Oh no no no! TSOC can not have mere browsing, not in his store! You will buy something and Will.Buy.It.NOW! TSOC will then crawl so far up your ass that not even a high colonic could dislodge him. TSOC will pull everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, within reach and shove inches from your face. “POFTITI!!!” TSOC will yell empathically. Never mind that the item itself is obviously four sizes to small, not your color and not even close to what you were originally looking at, you MUST want it dammit! “Nu, multemesc” you say politely and return to browsing, thinking TSOC will now leave you in peace. Oh foolish, foolish shopper. “POFTITI!!!” “Nu, multemesc”, slightly firmer this time. Repeat this scenario several times every 10 seconds with even more and more unsuitable items, until “Nu, multemesc” gets shorter and more agitated and your are finally reduced to screaming a very pissed of “NO!!!!” Does this visible annoyance mean you want TSOC to leave alone while you shop? Of course not you silly monkey! This, in fact, means TSOC needs to raise the pushiness bar even higher and try harder to sell you that orange and ruffled shirt that’s so small it wouldn’t even fit your elbow. Finally, in extreme and homicidal frustration you scream “NOOOOOOOO!!!!” and storm out the store without the fabulous pink and glittery purse you were eyeing.

Honestly though, I would rather have BASC over TSOC. At least BASC will leave you in peace.

Dirty shoes and filthy looks
So lately have been noticing that everywhere I go around my little Romanian town, I get the absolute filthiest, nastiest and dirtiest looks from women. They turn, look me up and down and sniff like I just shit in my hands and threw it at them (hey, I broke that habit years ago, thank you very much). I can’t leave the house without several dirty looks the moment I step out my front door. Frankly, I am getting fucking sick of it.

What, you ask, is the cause of this? Am I walking around covered in monkey feces? No. Am a prancing through streets wearing nothing but a pink tutu and underpants? No. Am I perhaps painting myself blue, donning a kilt and running through the streets yelling “FREEEDOOOM!”? Well, just that once, but it was a high holy day. No dear friends, it’s none of those reasons. It was finally revealed to me by a sitemate of mine when I turned to him after the latest nasty look and said “WHAT? What the hell is the problem these women have with me?” Said sitemate has been for awhile (we actually theorize he may never go home) and knows the score. He answered my question. It is dear friends…

Lint on my coat and dirt on my unpolished shoes. Yes. That’s it.

That’s why women here look at me like something my cat used to cough up on the carpet. It seems that because I have the audacity to leave my abode without picking every piece of lint off my winter coat and scrubbing and polishing my shoes, or even worse, wearing shoes with FLAWS in them (I should get beaten for that), and I refuse to slather on more makeup than a drag queen, then I am therefore deserve to be glared at for messing up their scenery. You’ve got to be kidding me.

At first I felt self conscious and beneath the women who glared at me. Then after a few moments of self loathing, it dawned on me what I was doing. My clothes are clean, my hair is brushed, I try to clean my shoes but five minutes on these dirty sidewalks renders that an exercise that frustrate even Sisyphus, and you try washing a winter coat hand. It if it was the occasional glare, I’d chalk it up to that one person, you find those types everywhere. But no, it’s everywhere, everyday, all the time. I am shocked at the over all judgment and shallowness of all this. And stumped. Maybe I will start painting myself blue and wearing kilts. If they want to glare at me, I want to give them a damn good reason.

Shameless plug for attention
Today, my dear readers, I am 31 years old. All in all, it has been a good birthday. Last Saturday, my dear and darling M threw me a party. Being a singleton, I have never had party thrown FOR me (well, not since I was a kid), all parties have to be coordinated by me. Or I don't get one. I was beside myself with joy at the thought of someone doing that for me. He, and a couple other friends, busted their asses caeeting a great spread of food and generally pampering me all evening. A very new experience for your Imperfect Goddess, and she loved it. He even made me a cake! I haven't had someone make me a cake in over a decade!

Today, some friends bought me a birthday lunch, and we spent several hours laughing and gossiping.

But guess what dear readers, this birthday has officially moved me to a new "box" on surveys. I am now officially a Sex In The City and Bridget Jones "single woman in her 30's" cliche, and I fucking love it, at least at the moment. Talk to me in an hour when I have overdosed on Sarah McLachlan, may feel differently.

For now. All hail the singletons!

Song quotes I am stuck on
About a month ago, my friend M looked at me and said "for every situation, you have a song to sing". He's right. These days I live by my song quotes. They say more about me than I could ever put into words. Some are moments in my life, people and places I may or may not want to forget. Others are more intangible emotions. No matter the context, it’s who I am these days.

"Kathy I am lost", I said though I knew she was sleeping, "I am empty and aching and I don't know why". Simon and Garfunkel, America.

"I'm so glad you finally made it here, with the things you know now, that only time could tell. Looking back, seeing far, landing right where you are, and oh, aren't we aging well?" Dar Williams, You're Aging Well.

"There must be a thousand things you would die for, I can hardly think of two. But not everything is better spoken allowed, not when I'm talking to you". Indigo Girls, Mystery.

"I touch the fire and it freezes me, I look into it's black. Why can't I feel? My skin should crack and peel. I want the fire back". Buffy, Walk Through the Fire.

He asked, "why did you move here?" She said "for the job, for the job and I've been so lonely here, so lonely. There's no one I can talk to". Dar Williams, Mortal City.

"The winter's here cold and bitter, it's chilled us to the bone. I haven't seen the sun for weeks, too long to far from home". Sarah McLachlan, Full of Grace.

"I just want to fly, I just want to fly away. I just want to spread my wings, if my may, today. I just want to fly, I just want to fly away, I just want leave this pain and this suffering". River Roots, Grace. FYI, anyone than can find me that CD, will have my immortal soul.

"Where are you, tonight I wonder. Where will you be, tonight when I cry? Will sleep for you come easy, while I alone can't slumber? Will you welcome the morning at another one's side?". Unknown, heard it on Prairie Home Companion.

“At this point in my life, I’ve done so many things wrong. Don’t know if I can do right.” Tracy Chapman, At This Point in My Life.

“I've come to find, I may never know. Your changing mind, is it friend or foe? I rise above, or sink below. With every time, you come and go, please don't come and go” Duncan Sheik, Barely Breathing.

“My poor generation, we’re airborne with nothing land on. We’re baffled by bullshit, grounded with nothing to stand on. Poor little fat cats, nothing that anyone planned on. Drowned in information.” My Poor Generation, Moxy Fruvous.

“Did you know when you go it’s the perfect ending, to the bad day I am just beginning. When you go all I know is you’re my favorite mistake.” Favorite Mistake, Sheryl Crow.

“Trouble, oh trouble set me free. I have seen your face and it’s just too much, too much for me. Trouble, trouble move away, I have seen your face and it’s just too much for me today”. Trouble, Cat Stevens.

“So she fills up her sails with my wasted breath, and each ones more wasted than the other you can bet . On Allison road. Now I cant hide so why not drive, I know I want to love her but I cant decide.” Allison Road, Gin Blossoms.

“525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure
the life of a woman or man? In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried. In bridges he burned, or the way that she died. It’s time now to sing out, tho the story never ends let's celebrate remember a year in the life of friends.” Seasons of Love, Rent.

“I was thinking if you were lonely, maybe we could leave here and no one would know. At least not to the point that we would think so. Everyone here, knows everyone here is thinking about somebody else”. Back 2 Good, Matchbox 20.

“Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you”. Stuck in the Middle, Steve Miller Band.

It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I’ve seen most of Romania from the windows of trains, buses and maxi taxis. You get a different feel for a place when you watch the scenery move by. Romania has the potential to be a beautiful country, but it can’t seem to make up its mind what it wants to be. As the EU ascension looms closer Romania appears be torn between decades of oppression and denial of basics, where no one but the closest family members were to ever be trusted and the new age of freedom, capitalism and cable TV. Romanians have an amazing amount of national pride, they love their country (when they aren’t fleeing to work in western europe), they love the beauty of their countryside (when they aren’t throwing thousands of tons of trash out windows and littering the countryside and the rivers with piles of garbage), and they are proud of their heritage (when they aren’t fighting amongst themselves about who this country really belongs to). As an outsider, it is so easy to stand in judgment, but I try very hard to take into account all that the country and its people have been through in such an alarmingly short period of time. Change is never something that comes easy. It is a slow, agonizing uphill battle, Romania hasn’t learned this lesson yet. Very few people here have learned that if you want any kind of change, you have to start with yourself. Hell, most of the human beings on this planet have yet to learn that.

I can spend hours gazing out the window when I travel (okay, I don’t really have choice, all travel takes hours). I sit watching tree filled mountains and fields so thick with wildflowers you’d think it was a painting. Fields of corn and sunflowers pass by with the occasional farmhouse sheltered by a small half circle of trees make me think I’m 9 years old again and traveling by train to visit family in the midwest. Then abruptly I see small shanty towns hobbled together with scrap wood, each house sporting a brand new satellite dish. You know it lacks plumbing, insulation and running water, but damned if they are going to miss out on their 52 channels. Brand new houses, buildings and churches stand half done and unfinished for months at a time as people run out funds and abandon the project. In between you get the view of burned out and crumbling shells of buildings that serve as blatant reminder of the not so distant past under communism. Second hand buses from Germany wind along pot hole ridden and dangerous roads being passed by everything from a beat up Dacia with a cow tied in the back, horse drawn carriages, motorcycles and brand new Mercedes.

Never I have seen such a polarization between the old and the new, the past and the future and the haves and have nots. It’s broken down communist bloc apartments or brand new shiny McMansions. It’s ancient rust covered Dacias running on fumes or a glossy Mercedes. It’s a society where women can and do work outside the home, generous maternity leave, equal pay and lots of pretty shiny rights on paper but still base their entire worth on whether or not they have a man in their life, how trim their waste is and will put up with anything (and I mean ANYTHING) from a man rather than be single (yes, yes I know, this still exists in the states, even within the heart of your Imperfect Goddess. But honestly not to the extent I have experienced here. At least in the states, it’s acknowledged and there is a movement fighting the stereotype. Not so here).

Is there a point to this entry? No, not really. It exists to illustrate my deep confusion about, “What the fuck am I doing here?”. Something, anything….I hope. Perhaps my next destination will be a little more clear.

One little two little three little hippies…
Another person in our group is going home. No reason really, I think she’s just fed up and finished. That brings the number up to 12 so far. Some have left because they were sacked, others for health reasons, some due to family emergencies, and others for weird convoluted reasons that have given us all hours of good gossip and conspiracy theories. I really feel for the people that left over health and/or family emergencies, in all the cases, none of them wanted to quit but they didn’t really have much of a choice (for the record, the agency I work for is very understanding and sympathetic in cases like this. If you have to leave for these reasons, you have the option of joining again anytime in the future). Those who get sacked on the other hand, garner no compassion for me. They were sacked for one simple reason, policy violation. Policies that are laid out from the get go in big huge red neon lettering that state clearly and simply, break these rules and you go home. I have been very careful to keep all toes in line so as not to give The Powers That Be any reason. But, I digress.

It’s the latest leaving that has me the most baffled. Why now? I wonder. Why, when we are in the home stretch? Why go through all that we have, invest this much time and when you finally have a glimpse of that light at the end of the tunnel, you think “ah, sod it” and go home? That effectively makes the last 16 months of your life completely wasted time. And not just any old wasted time, a wasted, lonely, confusing, homesick gut wrenching waste of time. Especially when you have a decent site, a good work environment, supportive site mates and nine wee little months to go. Yeah, I know those Romanian winters are tough. The endless dark, the bitter cold, miles of bleak snow and ice, and the Mortal City living, breathing and dying all around you (spot the reference my friends). But honestly, if you can get through the first one, the second one can’t be that hard.

I guess my point is, why sign up the first place if you aren’t in it for the long haul? Barring health, emergencies and unforeseen events that you have no control over (Goddess forbid), why on earth did you come here in the first place? If you are going to wantonly flout the rules you agreed to follow or just get bored and quit, what were your reasons for coming at all? I’m not sure why this is bugging me so much. I’m impatient with people who won’t honor their commitments. I deal with it so much in this country that I have reached the absolute end of my nerves whenever a new situation comes up. On the other hand, I may be judging the latest leave too harshly. There probably is more to the story than I aware of and there could very well be one of the unforeseen events that is causing this. Or perhaps not. Either way, one little two little three little hippies…twelve little hippies gone.

Sorry about the lack of posts
In a bit of a state and crisis right now. Using my holiday in the UK to sort it all out. What it boils down to is my disgust for a certain country and most of the people in it. On the whole, I have not been treated very well (with a few exceptions) since I landed last year. The people I encounter are either 1) out to use me 2) out to grope me 3) out to see how much money/stuff they can get from me.

I haven't been inspired to write because frankly, it hasn't been very flattering. Now that I have been a glorious seven days (and 7 more to go) in a civilized country where people are kind and compassionate to one another, I have been able to get a small breather and perhaps some perspective. It's refreshing to be back in a place where people stand in line, say excuse me and stop to help people on the street. It's great to see diversity in skin, dress, speach, thought and everything else. A place where people don't have to be exactly like each other all the time.

The beauty of London is breath taking, so is the fabulous coffee, real beer and choices in food (every place in Romania has exactly 10 items on the menu that never change or vary). Before I left I was on the verge of quitting, now I think I can hang in there the rest of the time. I just needed to be reminded of why I did this in the first place. I needed to remember what my life was like before I left. I needed to sooth the one frayed nerve I had left.

Then perhaps I can go back.

Mosquitoes and sunburns and hangovers…OH MY!
So I have been promising to visit my friend J’s site for a year now, and we had a conference coming up that was located down south. On her way back from vacation she swung through my site, and we traveled to hers together in order to spend a few days hanging out before the conference. Well, she’s down in the southern region of the country. Hot, hot, hot HOT! And more mosquitoes than the bayou in August. It doesn’t help that her apartment sits on a pool of standing water that act as the mosquito lover’s lane. Grant it, she has screens and all, but the screens have holes, and her door (although it locks properly) has gaps in it that little fuckers can just slip right through. Plus she had been out of town for over a week and hadn’t used any of her skeeter killing devices. We sleep in the horrible, oppressive, dear god kill me now heat and the next morning she wanders out scratching a few bites and asks “Did you get bit last night?” I said “Huh, I don’t know let me…HOLY FUCK!” I exclaim in horror as I look down at my legs and arms.

I am literally covered in at least 100 bites that are coating my arms, legs, face, stomach, breasts and a few places I care not mention. Mostly legs though. They are red, swollen and make me look like some leprosy victim out of the old testament. So much for getting laid at the conference, unless the leprosy look is in this year, don’t think so though. I now have to walk, talk and sleep under three layers of bug spray (doesn’t exactly feel good on the bites) and sleep right next to a skeeter device that sends off fumes that get the bastards high before they drop dead. Of course, it gets you a little soaring as well, not that bad of a trade off. Right now I am just on a mad killing spree do destroy what has now become my arch nemesis every chance I get. They bit the bottom of my feet. Yes, you read that right.

I am coping with all this by raiding her tuika stash and eliciting bottles of sympathy wine from her counterpart. It’s almost midnight, we have to be up at the crack of dawn to travel, and I can’t sleep due to the long ass nap I took during the hottest part of the day. Oh well, I have always wanted to read Ayn Rand.

There’s an Italian in my freezer, and other apartment quirks.
So here’s how it worked when I first get to my new site. I agree to take this apartment out of desperation, and the fact it was the only available on such short notice. Turns out there were several…ummm…issues. For starters I couldn’t move in for the first week because some mysterious Italian who only used the place for a few days every month still occupied it. I never saw said Italian, but I saw all of his shit scattered everywhere that the landlady packed up and took away. Never hide nor hair of the actual Italian himself though. Which leads us to the mysterious deep freezer in the kitchen that landlady stores “things” in. Which I’m not allowed to use (yes everyone, I know this is not okay. But there is nothing I can do about it, you just learn to deal). Well, out of curiosity my friend and I one day inspect said freezer only to find strange unidentifiable objects in several plastic bags. We think it’s the Italian.

Let’s move on to the kitchen sink, that’s seriously in danger of falling off the wall. Does anyone stop by to repair kitchen sink? No, apparently it’s my responsibility. Urrrr…okay then. Enter a stool and a bucket to wedge firmly under the right side in order to stop much crashing, smashing and gushing of water. Did I mention that no one in the building has hot water in any of their kitchens? I really don’t know why. I simply fill up buckets of hot water in the bathroom, haul them into the kitchen and wash ala little house on the prairie style. The bucket for dish washing also doubles as my washing machine.

Bugs. Lots of them. Getting eaten alive. I’m working on it.

There’s a giant broken television that the landlady refuses to get rid of sitting on the floor of my living room. It almost fell on me when I went to take it off the cabinet and the pieces of cardboard slipped under the cabinet legs to hold it upright came loose and sent the giant piece of electronic death hurling at me. I put a table cloth over it and called it an end table.

When I moved in the place resembled a graveyard of kitsch so vast and mismatched that even my Midwestern Lutheran grandmother would declare it to be tacky. After a serious and thorough dekitsching it finally stopped looking like a Deluth tourist trap that specialized in precious moments and long forgotten 70’s decor. Yes, all the kitsch had been lovingly handmade in China sweatshops.

I think my stove used to belong Laura Ingles Wilder. I have never seen a more ancient and difficult contraption in my entire life. I have to use a piece of folded cardboard wedged in the door to hold it closed. You can’t use the oven and the burners at the same time because the oven uses all the gas. Pieces regularly fall off and it’s barely big enough to fit a lasagna pan in. I cook in shifts.

The best part though is that my front door is padded on the inside. The day I finally snap, I can repeatedly bang my head against it and not have to worry.

40 Days and 40 Nights
Okay, so maybe it was more like 40 minutes, and I didn’t have to gather the animals two by two (unless you count the endless stream of bizarre bugs that keep popping up), and there was no construction going in my kitchen (except the bucket and stool concoction I came up with to keep my kitchen sink from falling off the wall) but I still I had minor flood in my kitchen. That also, ended up in my downstairs neighbor’s kitchen. Oops.

Here’s what happened. Outside everyone’s apartment is a 2 liter bottle of water that you leave out for the cleaning lady who cleans the shared walkways in the building. On my way out the door to work, I realize I hadn’t filled it in days so I grab it and head to my kitchen. Well, for some unknown reason all the cold water had been cut off for some unknown amount of time (stuff like that is perfectly normal here). Well, I didn’t turn off the tap all the way, seeming how no water was coming out, I was unaware of this. I fill up the bottle with hot water in the bathroom (remember, the kitchens in this bloc do not have hot water, don’t ask my why) and head off to work. I am there for roughly 40 minutes when landlady calls my office hysterical because water is filling the apartment below me. I race home with visions of a broken kitchen sink and who knows what else and find the downstairs neighbor standing with her door open and a very angry look (can’t say I blame her, I’d be pissed to) while water streams down her walls and drips off her ceiling. I run to my place and find the tap running full blast and my kitchen sink clogged (again! I keep a plunger by it at all times) while an inch of water covers everything. Good morning to me. Needless to say, I felt like a complete dumbass.

This is where charming everyone in my building had come in very handy. The sweet bunica from next door runs over and helps me move all the furniture around in my kitchen while we frantically use sheets and duvet covers to soak up the mess. Then we had to pull the slab of linoleum that’s randomly slapped over the concrete floor and lift it up so it could dry underneath. This involved moving a very heavy deep freeze (that I’m not allowed to use) the ancient stove and the kitchen table, while we propped it up with stools and chairs to allow for drying time. My kitchen is in shambles, I’m drenched in water and sweat, my freshly washed sheets are now filthy and have to be washed by hand again, and I have no idea how much damage was downstairs and if I’ll have to pay for it. It’s not even noon yet. Dumbass.

So I grab my Romanian/English dictionary and run downstairs for a frantic and jumbled conversation in Romanglish. After getting over her initial anger, the woman was surprisingly calm about the whole thing. I asked if any damage was done, and if it was big. She said no, no real harm done, it was an accident and she did the exact same thing to her downstairs neighbor with her washing machine (washing machines here have a hook up for water in, but not water out. So you have to put the drain hose in either the sink or the toilet). I apologized profusely and was promptly surrounded by several bunicii who all told me not worry about it and everything was under control now. I love my neighbors, I flood two kitchens and not only does everyone show up to help, but they actually feel sorry for the cute (dumbass) American girl on the top floor. Hell, not even my landlady was angry when showed up the next day to pay rent. She was all smiles and pleasant chit chat. I guess my cuteness really is my super power.

Later that day my boss went to the dentist and ended up being checked into the hospital for a week. But that’s another entry.

Relative Strangers, Relative Strangeness
I broke down in front of two people I barely know last night, both Americans in a similar situation to mine. Hell, I don’t even like breaking down in front of close friends let alone two men (calm down you overactive pack of yentas, they’re just friends) who are hardly more than drinking buddies. I ran into the kitchen to try and regain control (I know how men get around crying women) and they both followed me in and tried to get me to talk. I did, they listened, and they talked me off the ledge I was standing on. I finally begin to understand the strange and instant bonds people develop in weird and fucked up situations.

All three of us are from completely different worlds, have almost nothing in common and probably wouldn’t even hang out under normal circumstances. Yet, here I am crying on their prospective shoulders in the middle of Eastern Europe. There is this intensity that develops among us here. You can become best friends with somebody almost in a matter of hours. Some people fall in love in a matter weeks. While others pour their hearts out to complete, but still sympathetic, strangers. I think this desperate need to take care of each other is born out of a shared loneliness that you only feel when your dumped into the middle of foreign land and told “alright, go for it”. Go for what? Where is this “it”? In the confusion and desperation you hold onto to all the human contact you can find.

Some days are better than others I guess. I’ve never had a very strong hold on my so called reality (I can hear you snorting all the way over here, knock it off) and this experience is putting it to the test. I’m not a person than keep things inside, or work them out in my head. I need my sounding boards, I need to talk everything out in order to come to some sort of resolution. At this point I’ll take it any way can. Even if it’s wrapped in the package of two swivel necks who can’t go longer than 5 seconds without commenting on some woman’s body. Unless I need a hug, then they last 10 seconds.

Eh, you get used to it
I am astounded by the things that don’t bother me anymore. Case in point, I don’t have a washing machine. All laundry has to be washed, rinsed and wrung out by hand. I had been putting it off and had three loads to do, including two pairs of jeans. I have a whole new definition of “dirty” now.

Later that evening, I discovered I had an infestation of these little biting white mothy type bugs in my bedroom. There must have been at least 100 flying around. In the blankets, the sheets, crawling all over the bed. Thank the Goddess I have a couch to sleep on. So I rooted around my bathroom and came up three partially filled cans of bug spray and let loose in my bedroom. I’ll spare you the details of what I found crawling all over my bed.

Well as a result all the blankets had to be shook free of bug corpses and washed, oh yeah, by hand. Two sheets, two duvet covers, two heavy blankets and four pillow cases. Picture yours truly swooshing around her bathtub in soapy water like she’s stomping grapes. Plunge and scrub, lather rinse repeat, pull everything it out and wring. Damn that’s hard on the wrists. Of course the heavy blankets had to be hung over the bathtub overnight (wringing was impossible) so they could drip dry. Which was fine, because there is only so much room to hang things on my balcony and it was filled with the other items (the wringable ones). From start to finish, all of my laundry took three days to complete. That includes drying time. I only put the last bit of it away an hour ago.

Honestly, I was really unfazed by whole three day laundry process, didn't even panic over the bug part. The closest I got to “freaking out” over it was standing in my bedroom with a can bug spray in each hand and yelling “BRING IT ON!” at anything that moved while I doused them with enough toxins to kill Keith Richards. That was kind of fun, or maybe it was just all the fumes.

Other things that don’t bother me anymore:
•Catcalls from construction workers. They yell in a different language, so I can pretend it’s directed at someone else.
•Long travel times. I take buses, slow moving personal trains and maxi taxies from one end of the country to another. Three hours, is now a short trip.
•Taking an entire day to do my grocery shopping. I sometimes I have to travel to several stores and piatas to get everything.
•Waiting in line for an unknown amount of time. Eh, I don’t really have a schedule anymore. I’m in no hurry.
•Not understanding a bloody thing that’s being said around me. You just sort of tune it out and go inside your head for awhile. Every once in awhile I hear my name, or they’re talking about the evening, not sure which.
•Cooking everything from scratch, I mean EVERYTHING.
•Hot water being a crapshoot.
•Having to stuff a piece of newspaper in my stove to keep the door closed.
•100 hundred other little things I won’t bore you with.

It can't be
one year. But it has been. 2 days shy of the anniversary of the day I said good bye to all of you. Packed up my entire life. Stared straight into the abyss, then stepped on a plane and rode straight into the absolute worst period of my life.

But you all know that story.

I dream of home now all the time. I dream it's a year from now and I am seeing you all again. I wake up in the middle of Romania and know that I still have 14 months stretching between me and everyone I have ever loved. 14 months between me and home. Deep breath, I can do this.

I wonder if I will even recognize any of you. If there will still be a place in your life for me. If things will have moved on so much that I can't catch up.

And who will I be when I get back? Already I feel chnages that have rocked me to the core and left me marveling at the creature I once was. The thing is, this journey is far from over. I don't even know how much there will be left of the Goddess you said goodbye to. If you will even know the woman attached to the painted toenails that step off the plane next summer.

But this all my idle mind spinning what is not there. You will know her, me, us. And you'll this new one, with her new strenghths, weaknesses, beauties and flaws. Lives will be shifted t fit her back in.

Or she'll kick your ass. Sme things never change.

I guess it's all perspective
“Wow, you’ve lead an interesting life” a friend of mine will say.

“Really?” I ask as my head does that weird, canine, shift to the right thing.

Oh sure, my life has been far from boring, but I never really thought it was anything out of the ordinary. But time and time again lately, I get comments on how interesting my life has been. Huh, I had no idea.

Maybe it’s because so many of my friends here are a lot younger than I am, be they other volunteers or Romanians. Many of them are 6, 7, sometimes more years younger than I am. Maybe they just need more time, maybe they haven’t fully experienced the “big bad world” yet, or maybe…

You see, like my Sainted Father, I am a storyteller. I can take the most boring and mundane situation then find all the little details that make any experience interesting. It’s not that I lie (okay, I have been known to interpret facts, but not lie), I just have that ability to spin a sweet story. I am also very eccentric and tend to attract other like minded people to me like moths to flame. Whether it’s regulars in the Seattle Goth Scene, the tight knit sisterhood, burning man regulars, artists, geeks, pagans and hippies, I find them all and draw them into my chaotic world with a few bats of my big blue/green eyes.

You put all these wonderful, wild, intelligent and crazy people into the life of a storyteller, and you will never be bored. Added to that, DAMN, do I love to talk (“No! Not you our imperfect goddess” I can hear the shock and surprise) and I love to entertain. You come over to my house and you will get dinner and a live improv show, maybe not as good as The Anne, but I try. Marriages, births, rehab, divorces, wild nights out and crazy nights in…Let me entertain you, let make you smile (geek check). I can do full reenactments including pantomime and characters, thank you theatre training.

Or hell, maybe I have had an interesting life. From my high school years as a disdained theatre geek, moving out at 18 and living in poverty, my liberal arts hippy college, being a stepmom at 24, my running off to Romania at 29 and my various escapades in between. My friends, my family and all the rich fascinating stories they bring, maybe my life has been note worthy. Or maybe, I am just yanking your chain again.

There are not enough words to describe how happy I am right now
As many of you already know, might change has been approved and at the end of next month I move to one of the most beautiful cities in Romania. I already have a few friends there who will help me settle in and I will be working with two fantastic organizationd that focus on women's health.

It's over, this hell is finally over and I have been granted an early parole. Now my service can start, now the waiting is over.

I know tomorrow you'll find better things! And I have.
Brace yourselves, they are finally listening to me. Today while on the phone with my program manager, she brought up a site change. They finally believe me. They finally realize I have tried as hard as I could to make this site work, but there is no need for me here. She wants to move me to a better site.

I am not being sent home.
I am not being left to rot.
I am not being ignored or brushed off.

They are willing to work with me. She also suggested changing my sector so I can focus on women’s issues. You see, I made a huge mistake in my assumption about environmental non-profits here. They are not like the states, which is a lot of legislative, event planning, organizational, research blah blah blah. It’s mostly working directly with small children (yeah, right) or going into the woods and sleeping in a tent (ummmm, excuse me?). I don’t think I need to elaborate on how this is so, very, completely, totally, NOT ME!

But, as you all know I have been working on women’s issues here with huge success. My manager wants to help me find a women’s organization and change my sector so I can focus on that.

This is the most hope I have felt in a long time. Just keep your fingers crossed, and keep those positive vibes coming.

Green Goddess on a cracker, did I ever earn that package!
Have I mentioned that traveling in Romania is, at best, a crapshoot? Dad sent me a package and because it was over four pounds I had to go to the county seat to pick it up. I know he means well, I know everyone means well, but I have to put a stop to these big packages. Anything under four pounds comes directly to my town (I don’t know why that is) and everything over four pounds goes to the county seat where I have to travel and pick it up. Usually to go to the county seat I have to do the following:

7:10am: Leave house and walk 30 minutes to train station.
8:00am: Catch train to county seat.
9:15am: Arrive in county seat.
9:15am-10am: Wait for Vema to open to get package.
10am-10:30am: Go through tedious process of getting said package, sometimes can take up to an hour.
Wait around for a few hours not really having much money to do anything.
2pm: Catch train back to my town.
3:15pm: Arrive back in town and walk 30 minutes home.

Please don’t think for a moment that I don’t appreciate everything people have sent me, believe me, those generous gifts brighten up my whole week, hell, month. I just sometimes wish there was a little less generosity. Take this morning for example, slight travel hitch.

After getting a late start to I haul ass to catch my train. When trying to buy my ticket in the few minutes I have before the train leaves the ticket lady and some man at the counter begin yelling something at me in two different languages, I get flustered and say in English “I don’t know what you’re saying to me”. You see, being in a Hungarian town in a Romanian country has made by language skills less than desirable. After getting on what I am sure is the correct train I follow my usual system of asking a few people if this is the right train, some say yes and some say no. Some try to explain something to me, I don’t know what. Finally the conductor comes around to check my ticket (which at that point I had noticed had the wrong stop written on it) and I tell him where I need to go. After a frustrating 5 minute conversation I discover the train will not be stopping at the county seat, but at a small town about 9 kilometers outside the county seat. Why? Something mysterious is wrong with the lines and the train can’t go any farther than said small town. I have to get off there and hitchhike.

Now, before anyone starts freaking out, hitchhiking here is not the same as in the states, it is an acceptable everyday practice that practically everyone from teenagers to senior citizens does. Most people pick up hitchhikers in order to pay for petrol, so please DO NOT PANIC, I know what I’m doing (and I am not doing it at 3am, so again, DO NOT PANIC). Back to the saga in process.

Over 100 people get off the train and descend to the side of the road to try and get a ride to their destination (see? commonplace). I don’t know if there’s a bus, I don’t know if I can get a ride, I don’t know how long it could take to get a ride. All I know is the Vema is only open from 10am to 12pm, and I have to get there, get my package and hope I can find a bus home (there was, luckily, a 12:30pm bus, that cost three times as much as the train, OUCH! When you make as little as I do, shit like that can hurt ya). It’s 9:15am, I survey the huge crowd, figure out how many kilometers it is to my destination, and start walking.

I make it about 3 kilometers, it’s almost 10am and I have 6 kilometers to go, I start to worry. Several cars and taxis pass me packed to the gills, a bus passes so full I’m surprised there weren’t people strapped to the top of it. I had been trying to flag down cars with no luck. Just outside of town I decide that most of the crowd has probably dwindled significantly and I let several groups of people also walking pass me. With a silent prayer to Hermes I hold out two fingers and get a car to stop (Thank you Hermes!). I determine that they are also heading to the place I need to go, and I hop in the back, staying silent. In the anticlimax of the story I get to the Vema, retrieve the package and make my bus home.

All this on top of cramps and no breakfast. I stopped by the store on the way home to get red wine and M&Ms. I earned that damn package.

I never quite expected this
I continually find myself in situations that I never in my wildest thoughts expected. When I stepped on that plane nine months ago I had no idea what to expect, no idea where I would be going, whom I would meet or what would fill up the two years of my service. Yet time after time I find myself in these surreal situations that leave me shaking my head and mumbling “This is not what I thought it would be”.

Who knew I would find myself in a Jazz club in small Romanian city bonding with a gay hairdresser and listening to an Irish Folk musician. If my evil plan for a site change works, I already have someone lined up to cut my hair. Priorities after all.

Who knew I would find myself on a slow moving personal train talking with a young Romanian woman about reincarnation, meditation and shakras. In one of the most religiously conservative countries in the world, I accidentally bump into one of the few people who have chosen to follow a different path.

Who knew I would find myself in the office of a feminist organization teaching a group of Romanian women how to scream and fight. Do you have any idea how amazing it is to watch a group of women go from shy, timid and embarrassed to a room of full of strong assertive women who finally believe they have a right to say no? How amazing it is to know that you helped give them the tools they needed to feel that? Also there is nothing like a good prolonged scream to relieve all that built up tension.

Who knew that I would start to view a travel time of 4 hours as a “short trip”. I will never complain about how long it takes the #16 to get from Greenlake to downtown again.

Who knew I would find myself in a hot crowded underground nightclub dancing with several other volunteers to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”.

Some days I find I catch myself short, “How in the Hell did I get here”? Some days I have to catch my breath and wonder “What do I think I am doing”? But even in those moments, I know I will never regret doing this, I refuse to think my time is being wasted even when I sit and wait and plan.

For now when I find myself swinging around a pole in nightclub, singing along to traditional Irish music, shaking my way through a club while singing along to old Depeche Mode or talking about how to reach a higher spiritual level on an old dingy train, I simply laugh to myself. “This is not what I expected”.

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