The Longest Trip

I have not written one of these in a long while. Part of it is, I guess, that we have not had this much un-luck with the airline business for a while and part of it is the fact that about a year ago we stopped flying altogether for about a year. But let me tell you: it caught up with us during the most recent trip to Romania, and back.

Grab a long cup of something. We'll be a while!

It actually started with the trip to Romania, first. We made it to Iasi, our final destination there, but our luggage did not. We filed a 'lost luggage' claim in Iasi for both our suitcases, but they could not tell us where they were tracked last. In the US they can tell you almost instantly when the luggage was last scanned, what airport, but in Iasi they told us it takes up to three hours for our claim to become actualized in the computer system and for them to get an answer back.

They called us from the airport the next day to tell us that we need to come and pick up the luggage, and that it had made it to Iasi, finally. They could deliver it to us, but they would have to open it to ensure there is nothing illegal in the suitcases (for customs purposes, since we were coming in from a non-EU country), and they do not recommend us not being there when this was happening. Plus, being a Saturday, they could not deliver it till Monday to us. Their delivery system does not work during weekends. (forget that people travel, the airport is open during weekends, and people lose luggage, but … delivery not working. OK!)

So, we go to the airport, to find that only one of our bags had made it to Iasi, but the other one had not. We ask why but they could not tell us. They tell us that the other one is in Bucharest, and it will be shipped most likely with the next flight (in 2 hours) and we should come back for it.

As those of you who follow our Facebook feeds know, my uncle is some sort of a big shot for the Romanian airlines, TAROM, in Iasi. So, he made a couple of phone calls after this episode and found out that they could not send both suitcases at the same time because the weight of the plane was at the limit, and our suitcase had to be left behind, as it did not make the overall plane weight. One suitcase. 50 lbs! Threw off the entire plane weight. All right!

We drove back to the airport for the second time that evening and collected the second suitcase. I was just grateful that everyone there was very kind, patient and really helpful and we did not even have to bribe anyone.

After spending two weeks in Iasi with my parents and seeing some friends and family, we were scheduled to come back home on May 4. I spent a whole weekend trying to book this trip, because it was close to impossible to find connections that made any sense at all. Due to various reasons, we did not book this trip way in advance, like I normally do. We booked it about a month and a half (barely) before we flew. So, the number of really good flights, with layovers that made any sense in airports where you do not risk being blown up was really limited. One of the connections we kept finding was through Dulles, Washington, DC and that was one of my biggest requirements to not go through that airport, as it is hell! Especially for international flights, it is hell! (as a fun fact, the three letter word for the Dulles airport is IAD. Those who speak Romanian know that spells “hell” quite clearly).

Another major requirement was that I did not want a 12 hour layover anywhere else. But a compromise had to be made, and I finally did book our trip with a 9 hour layover in Bucharest, on our way back to The States.

So, on May 4^th, we got up around 8 AM and packed to leave Iasi and return home. Our flight from Iasi to Bucharest (serviced by TAROM) was scheduled for 7 PM. After that, we would sleep at a hotel in the airport and be back at the Bucharest airport at 6 AM the following morning to fly to Paris (serviced by Air France) , and then from there directly to Raleigh-Durham (serviced by Delta). That was the plan. But plans as they come are made to be messed with.

My big shot airline uncle calls us around 12 PM the day of our departure and says “hey, did you guys receive a confirmation from your airline/ booking service or whatever that you have been redirected to fly through Frankfurt tomorrow, before you get to Paris?” I had received a confirmation ONLY from Delta about the flight from Paris, that it was coming up and it looked on time and that I need to prepare, bla bla bla, the usual. I told him “no, we did not receive such a confirmation”, and where in the world is he getting Frankfurt from?!

Mom already knew from the radio that Air France is on strike and their flights are grounded but did not think that we were going with Air France, so she had not told us anything. She also ran into one of their strikes before and TAROM serviced the flight instead, as their partner, so she was thinking TAROM might take us from Bucharest to Paris, since Air France was on strike. But nope, TAROM had no available planes, evidently, and the flight from Bucharest to Paris now became two flights: Bucharest to Frankfurt, and Frankfurt to Paris through Lufthansa. This would put us in Paris before the Delta flight to Raleigh-Durham, since we had a 3 and a half hour layover there and had some time to kill. This is why I usually like layovers between 2 and 4 hours – to leave enough room for changes, delays, and airline whimsy-ness...

Thank God for nosy relatives in high places, I guess. If it were not for my uncle searching our flights for our return trip simply out of curiosity and being a flying geek we would not have found this out till we got the Bucharest the next morning. Not that knowing in advance helped in any way really, other than giving us a new perspective, and real expectations. We were to thank God and curse airlines and airline services several times during what it was to follow. But let's not jump ahead.

The flight from Iasi to Bucharest was uneventful, except for my backpack beeping when it went through the security belt in Iasi. They asked me if I had electronics in it. I said “sure, I did.” I had a camera, a couple of power banks, an MP3 player, chargers, etc. They opened it and scanned them all separately. This was news to me, that electronics might get you in trouble at the check-in line, but there you go. You live and learn. Or fly and learn, rather. I still don't know which of my electronics beeped or was the problem. My iPad was already in a bin by itself, and my husband had a camera and a phone in his backpack, but his didn't beep. I also had batteries and power banks in mine, and he didn't. Who knows?! They never tell you.

We had to pick up our luggage in Bucharest, because they do not check it to your destination from Iasi, for some reason. We picked them up there, and went to our hotel for the night. The hotel stay was lovely, to have a place where you could at least stretch for a bit. A million times better than the dirty chairs in the airport, for sure. We did not sleep much those few hours in the hotel, but the quiet, and relative cleanliness of the hotel was nice.

The next morning, we were in the airport at 4 AM, to check in for our flights that day. Because my uncle told me we are flying Lufthansa from Bucharest, we knew to go to their counter to check in first. As my booking company never sent me a confirmation from the flights that day, I would not have known that I was to show up at the Lufthansa counter, and I would have shown up at Air France. No idea if anyone would have been there to even redirect me, since the company was on strike and all. Like I said: thank God for nosy uncles!

We board the flight in Bucharest, after checking in our luggage, passing through security and passport control. Our luggage was tagged to go through Frankfurt-Paris-Raleigh. We were given tickets from Bucharest to Frankfurt, and from Frankfurt to Paris, but they could not give us tickets for the Delta flight. They said they cannot access that system and we should get boarding passes in Paris, when we get to the gate. Lufthansa is not a Delta partner. This happened before, so this was not a surprise really. The luggage was tagged, as I mentioned, all the way to the destination, in Raleigh.

After boarding the flight to Frankfurt in Bucharest, the Captain came on almost immediately as the scheduled time was up and said they are having to reboot the computer of the airplane as they are seeing some errors, so the lights will go out and the air will stop briefly in the plane, as the computer would reboot. So, they did that, then we waited for another 20 minutes or so after that. He came on again to say, “Well, we rebooted the computer, but that didn't fix it. So, now, we are calling a technician to have them look at it and try to fix it.” How does one fly with a broken computer is beyond me and why do you find out that the computer is broken after you have loaded your plane with 100+ people?! The Captain also said “I cannot tell you how much longer this will be, we put an order in for the technician and we have to wait for them to come.”

We waited for another hour or so. People started getting antsy. We had 45 minute layover in Frankfurt, and we knew if we waited any longer we would not make the flight from Frankfurt to Paris. I started looking online (thank God for turning on our phones for the International Data plan, so we could do this!) to see if there were any other flights from Frankfurt to Paris that day that would possibly get us to Paris in time for our Delta flight to Raleigh. There were two more flights that would allow us to still make the Delta flight, so I was hoping the computer will get fixed so we can make it.

The technician came and spent probably 10-15 minutes trying to fix the computer (after waiting for him for half hour or so). The Captain came in again on the speaker to say that the technician could not fix the computer so now they have to replace it. So, they will put an order in for another computer and once they replace it, we'll be good to go, but that he doesn't know how long that will take.

All in all, we waited for the computer to be replaced about two and a half to three hours. We missed all of our connections from Frankfurt to Paris and at the end of this wait we knew we could not get to the Delta flight we had book out of Paris and directly home. In all likelihood, there is no other flight directly from Paris to Raleigh, NC, so we knew we were in for some major rerouting …

You have to understand a thing or two about some of the airports in Europe. I am not sure why they all do this but they do: instead of parking their planes right on the terminal gates, they park their planes sometimes miles away from the airport building. This was the case with the Lufthansa flight in Bucharest: there was nowhere to go. We all sat in our chairs and waited for up to three hours for someone to fix the computer of the plane. The thoughts everyone had about flying with a possibly not OK computer are the stuff of nightmares, I am sure.

While we waited, the head steward came to almost everyone on the plane to reassure everyone that everyone will be rerouted and everyone will be on a different flight by the time we get to Frankfurt. He also said they will obtain the rerouting information and will share it with everyone so that once people get off this plane they will know where to pick up their next connection. This was true: he came on the speaker and told everyone who was supposed to fly to wherever next where they were being rerouted – what new flight number and what new destination. During this entire crazy day, the staff on this Lufthansa plane were definitely the most considerate, patient and thorough people out of everyone. When we heard our redirection information, we were not sure what direction we were going to be rerouted in, but we had some flight numbers and times that we could see on the airport monitors.

Before we even got off the plane in Frankfurt, I went on a Lufthansa website and put my reservation number in. My uncle said no matter what happens with the rerouting of the planes, my reservation number will always stay the same. And he said if they keep rerouting me to go to any site of the airline I am with (in this case Lufthansa) and my reservation should show all the legs of all of my flights. He was right. We went online while we waited and we knew that Lufthansa had rerouted us and we were no longer going through Paris. We were now going from Frankfurt to Washington, Dulles (yeah, you're allowed to sigh, just like I did – well, I did more than sigh), then from there to Raleigh. There was a Frankfurt-Dulles flight at 12.20 and we were allegedly going to make that.

We found the gate for the Dulles flight (at 12.20 PM). As nice as the airplane staff was before, the gate staff was just as rude and abrasive. The new flight was now going to be serviced by United Airlines. The people at the gate were a mixture of American (United and TSA) and German (Lufthansa) people. They were all crass and inconsiderate.

We got boarding passes, as our boarding passes from Bucharest were no longer valid, of course, and then we were put in groups, according to what group we would board with (1 through 4). They were yelling at people to get into their own queues, and everyone had to be in a queue, not on chairs, or anything. They were nowhere near boarding, but they needed everyone standing in the lines for each group.

They called my name and an American gentleman said that I was “selected by the TSA to be thoroughly searched.” They took me behind these removable walls and two women met me. One of them requested that I put my carry-on bags (a backpack and a purse) on a table and open them. She asked me if I had any electronics. I said “yes”. She asked me what kind. I told her and she wanted to see all of them. I pulled them out and she swiped them with a blue wipe, and then she put the wipe on a machine and she saw something or other on a computer screen. She told me I was OK. Then, another woman asked to see my shoes. I took them off and she bent them and twisted them every which way. She told me everything was OK and I was cleared.

I was livid with frustration. The TSA apparently needed this from me! The TSA! This is after the same institution took my money to “pre-check clear me” for all of the flights they have authority on! I paid $90 and waited for 6 weeks for them to check my records and decide that I am safe on every flight, but now … I was somehow showing up on their machines that I needed to be searched! I was thinking they need to write a filter for this random search software that excludes the people they already decided are OK, but you know … too much to ask!

They started boarding, but being in one group or another proved to not matter. Boarding was completely random and completely different for everyone. There were three lines for boarding and they kept shoving everyone, no matter what their group was, into all three, equally: one line was not even manned: you'd walk through it and you'd scan your boarding pass yourself, the second one was manned and they would scan the boarding pass for you. A third line was manned by a TSA (or some sort of American authority) that asked you if you bought anything in the airport, if yes, what, if your luggage was with you the whole time and whether anyone gave you something to carry on the plane. Then, after you passed this person, another person scanned your boarding pass and let you on the plane.

Well, no, not on the plane, but on this corridor that ended in a lot of stairs. So, after this crazy boarding process, we were all shoved in this hallway and then down these never ending stairs (not escalators, stairs!). There were no windows to the outside and we were not sure where we were going. Someone asked under his breath “are we boarding, or are we being drafted or traded?” We were all tight like sardines standing on the stairs and people with rolling carry-ons were cursing because they had to carry them down these stairs.

After that, they put us on buses to take us to the plane. We drove a long time – seemed like 5-6, maybe more miles, far from the airport and we came to a United plane. There, we were given instructions how to board, as they were boarding from the front and the back of the plane at the same time. No one had a clue where to go, they were yelling at us again but we were all like chickens with our heads cut off, going back and forth just trying to get somewhere on that damn plane! It was mayhem!

We finally boarded and tried to settle down. If you have flown overseas before you know that those planes are huge. This plane had three seats on the right, four in the middle and three more on the left. So, for each row you have 10 seats. The plane was packed. It was going to be a 9 hour flight to Dulles, so everyone had lots of things to settle with: books, tablets, laptops, eye patches, blankets, neck pillows, etc. A family with two small children had car seats, bassinets, many shoulder bags. We all took a while to settle down.

Too preoccupied with all of this, we didn't realize that we were way past our time to take off. We were delayed again. No one told us anything. After about an hour or maybe more, one of the stewardesses came on the speaker to say “Ladies and gentlemen, we are working on an issue, so this is why we have not left yet. I just wanted you to know that we're working on something.” That was it. Then, after another 30 minutes or so, they started bringing out snacks and drinks. Someone asked the flight assistant “are we leaving any time soon?”, the answer was “nope!”. Someone else asked “are we going to have to leave the plane?”, the answer from the stewardess was “that would be the best case scenario.” Umm … we were all stunned! (reminder: at this point, we're on a United plane, all staff American).

After about two and a half hours on this plane, the Captain comes on and says “folks, we got a problem with the water draining system and we called a crew to have it fixed. However, they have not fixed it in a way that would allow us to take this plane up in the air, so for this reason, we are going to take everyone off the plane and rebook them to other flights. This plane is not going anywhere today.” This was like adding insult to injury: after keeping us cooped up in there for close to three hours (again, miles from the airport, we could not be outside of the plane), we were told “no soup for us!”

We waited another 30 minutes since this announcement for the buses. People were getting antsy about wanting to leave and the same stewardess who came on earlier saying “we're working on something” said “folks, we are literally waiting on the buses to arrive to take us back to the terminal. You must understand that we're sharing these buses with all the other airlines, so you need to be patient.” Got it! A large cup of patience coming right up! Especially while across the world from where you need to be and no idea how to get where you need to be. Sure thing!

The darn buses slowly arriving to pick us up from the airplane

You thought you could just exit the plane and wait for the bus on the pavement, but think again: we were policed everywhere  .... 

.... and standing on more stairs, waiting for our turn to move. All packed tight.

The buses did come and off we went to the terminal again. At this point, it was a little after 3 PM (the flight was supposed to leave at 12.20 originally). We had to walk up all those steps again. Again, people with huge carry-ons had to haul them upstairs all by themselves. No idea whether there was an elevator anywhere. There was no escalator or ramp for disabled people, that we could see.

We went to the United service desk, because I kept searching our rebooking online and we had not been rebooked. Lufthansa had rebooked us before, but United was not rebooking anyone. So, we went to their service desk to be rerouted. The very rude lady yelled that she is closing the office for the day, and we needed to go to gate Z19 which will reroute everyone. We went there and there was a flight boarding and people in line for that and then all of the people on our flight too. There were hundreds of people in that line. I was thinking we might be there till next day JUST to get to the counter.

In the meantime, the airport looked like it was shutting down. All stores but one were closed, and all the gates seemed to be closed, except for Z19. We overheard someone that they rebooked themselves from the United app. We're not normally United flyers, so we had to download the app, and with our reservation number, we rerouted ourselves to the next flight to Dulles – luckily there was a second one there, and then one last flight of the day in Dulles to Raleigh. Maybe, just maybe we might make it home that day! We still had to stand in line and get boarding passes, but we knew we were on that flight.

We bought some snacky food at the only store open next to our gate and waited for the second flight to Dulles. At this point, we felt desperate. If this last flight would not work out, then what?! We would have to spend the night in Frankfurt, then the next day go who knows where? And where would our luggage be by this time, being rerouted so many times?!

We repeated the crazy boarding process again (standing in line with your group), and I got re-flagged again by the TSA to be “thoroughly searched.” I went to the search people to be searched again, and I had the boarding stub from the previous flight saying that the search happened (they put a sticker on your boarding pass when you pass and they highlight it with a marker) and showed them I already did that. They said I was OK, then, and no need to go behind the mobile walls for searching again. I was paged and called back at the podium twice after this, because I was showing up as “random search” still. I kept going back to the search people and they kept telling me I am OK, but they never cleared me in the computer. After three times, I think they finally cleared me.

We finally boarded the second plane to Dulles and the flight was already delayed by almost an hour. We waited on the plane for another hour and a half. If everything had gone smoothly, we would have had a 2 hour and 40 minute layover in Dulles. Since we were again being delayed (this time, we were not sure why, no one told us anything), our layover was more like an hour and a half now. We were hoping that they will make up time since it's a 9 hour flight, but flying against the stream is always slow.

One of the most maddening things was to not know what gate any of these flights were leaving from, when you're already pressed for time. Notice the only delayed flight is the United Airlines one and there is no gate assigned (only a letter, "Z", but no gate number  - it could be one minute or 12 minutes away from this screen). 

We eventually took off and we did not make up all of the time. We landed in Dulles with a layover of exactly an hour since we left the plane. Since we had to clear passports, and then find our luggage, clear customs, drop off our luggage, pass security again, find our gate for Raleigh, we were 100% sure we were not going to make this last flight home, at 10.35.

There is no way to rush through passports control and filling out the custom forms! You're behind tons of people who may be doing this for the first time. It's confusing and there is no help. Lots of these people didn't speak English. We were behind all sorts of folks.

Not only this, but the customs and passport control people were closed for the day in the terminal where we landed and we had to board buses again to be taken to the main terminal. Again: if you have planes coming in from overseas, why close the customs offices?! And if you have to close them in one terminal, why do you land there? Land in the one where you have all the services working. I know, I am asking for logic! Silly me!

After the passport control and filling out the customs information, we rushed to the baggage claim area. An angel of a gentleman asked us where we were flying next, and we told him Raleigh-Durham. He said in a rush “great, we're holding up the plane for Raleigh-Durham so you'll make it.” I did not believe that was true, but then the same announcement came on the speakerphone and listed several destinations for which they were holding planes for people on our flight. I thanked God again.

We finally made the flight to Raleigh, the last of the night, but only after being taken again by bus to probably the same terminal where we landed from Frankfurt to begin with. The irony of it all.

When I was in my seat in this last plane to Raleigh, completely breathless from running across the airport to catch it, I just started crying uncontrollably. I was trying all day to be brave and composed and calm, because there was no other way to go through all this otherwise, but at the end I lost it. It felt good to cry. And through this whole ordeal, our bags made it this time! They had the wrong tags on them (originally routed through Paris), but they made it!

All in all, the trip from when we boarded the first flight from Iasi to the time when the last flight landed in Raleigh took 36 hours (with a few hour break in the Bucharest hotel). We had been awake for 48 hours, not counting the time in the hotel where we hardly got any sleep and the very poor sleep we get on a plane. We started the trip on May 4^th. We entered our house on May 6^th. This will make for never forgetting to celebrate Cinco de Mayo! Definitely the longest trip of my life.

If there was one thing I learned during this whole thing was: always have a working phone everywhere in the world. There is a lot you can do on a site or on an app nowadays (like rebooking your own flight to avoid standing in crazy lines) and even without wifi, you can do it over the data plan. You'll pay later, but it's worth it. The second thing a phone does is keep you sane! You can stay in touch with your support system (relatives, friends, your social network) to take your mind off the craziness around you. I would not have made it with just one good cry otherwise.

I have friends who pretty much live in airports for their jobs. I could not imagine running into these problems everyday and getting to a point where they would feel “normal”. I felt frustrated, angry, dirty beyond belief and very helpless through this whole process. I love to travel, but not at this kind of cost …

Safe skies, everyone. And I wish you all at least one angel like we had to save your days, when things do get tangled!

Sweet Reminders …

I remember when Aa. proposed to me. I had no idea he was going to propose, but he had picked this place on top of a mountain, in Utah, and he wanted to propose to me there (I think it was called The Bear's Overlook). We tried to drive to the spot, but the road was barricaded because of winter. So, we found this side trail and took it to see what's out there, and we found the most amazing mountain valley, loaded with red rock that grew out of nothing, an eerie, breathtaking spot, quite out of this world, called The Devil's Kitchen that we had never heard of before (http://wander-world.blogspot.com/2009/12/proposal.html). It ended up being the most perfect spot for our engagement and proposal and it will always be a beautiful reminder that life is part plan, part happenstance, and part magic, and in the end perfect.

Today was my birthday. I think for the first time in a long time, I had no plans for it. I woke up quite cranky this morning and quite sad, like I usually am on my birthday, and with no plans. I wanted to make the plans as we went. We ended up with a full day and a lovely one at that.

The one thing, again, that reminded me that we're seldom in control and yet this is not all bad was how our dinner plan came to be. Or rather lack thereof.

For dinner, I did not have any special cravings and I had no place picked out. But I said “well, if I have to have one dish it would have to be trout (which is sometimes close to impossible). So, we found a restaurant downtown Carrboro that had it on the menu. Aa. said if he must have one thing it would have to be tiramisu for dessert. Well, the same restaurant that had the trout did not have the tiramisu on the dessert menu. But, because I have the most perfect husband and because it was my birthday, he said “well, we'll go, it's your birthday. You get the trout.”

As we walked in and Aa. scanned the Specials board, he pointed to the dessert special. And yep, you guessed it: it was the tiramisu.

It is a small thing. I know. It is maybe so insignificant to most of you. But it speaks volumes to me and I needed to hear this. Especially today, when I am once again, like we all are once a year, at our big crossroads.

Lately several things have off-railed for us, it seems. Some things seem out of control and dragging our lives in weird and painful directions. I have been wanting so painfully hard to be back in control. But today I was reminded: we're not. We seldom if ever are. We need to let go, and let be … and wonderful things will come and wonderful outcomes will happen. We just need to loosen those reins a little bit and leave room for the magic and the coincidence. Que sera, sera … right?!

Let's just hope I remember this next time I want so desperately to keep everything and everyone in line. Let's hope …

A Picture a Day. March

The smells, the noises, the colors, the capriciousness, the blue skies, the snow, the birds ... of early spring. The new life barely breaking through. 

It was a good March, albeit still too cold! 

This is taken the day all the kids in the country marched for less violence and more control of guns. I thought this was appropriate. Click the picture and scroll through this month's visual notes.

Re-finding Home

We have been back here, in The South, for five months now. It seems surreal to say the least how months just accumulate on one's journey through this life without one as much as noticing it or hearing it. But here we are. We've been Southerners for five months!

It's been a mixture of melancholy, excitement, sadness and joy that I have savored these months with – a mixture that has been, to be honest, unexpected. Joy and excitement I would have expected, maybe even melancholy, but sadness? That was surprising!

There is sort of a sadness to be back. There is sometimes sort of a longing for what we just left behind. I miss the mountains sometimes. I get lost dreaming about my next trip to The West. This, I did not expect.

There is sort of a reset button you have to push when you move anywhere, but especially when you move back to almost square one. But not quite. And it's not easy to do it. The sadness might come also from the fact that the time seems to stand still here. Not much newness in these parts, and my body is saying: “you needed new things, not more of the same old ...”. There is no smart response I can give to that.

There is also a personal time, a time that did move and did grow, and matured elsewhere. This time, all internal to me, lived in the hard and harsh Rockies for a while, got beaten down by canyon winds, and turned red from red rock dust in the desert. This personal, internal time, living mostly in my mind wants to be roaming and climbing trails somewhere far, far away, close to the aspen groves and the rocky peaks.

I try to bring my heart home – but home is now an elusive concept, I guess. I try to rein it in back into the slow flowing Southern hollow … and it keeps wanting to stay wild. And that's where that sadness comes from: being forced to reboot when all your heart wants to do is fly … It also comes, somewhat, from the fact that friends you thought you had seem elusive now and although pretty much next door, they are swallowed by their daily lives and there is no room for you. You have to start anew even with them. But people forget. In Romanian we say that “When people's eyes cannot look into each other's anymore, they look for someone else's.” Such is life!

The truth is, however, this damn weather! It's been horrible since we got back. Probably one of the worst winters we'll ever live to talk about, mostly because we did not expect it to be this cold. The cold alone is enough to drive you bonkers, the lingering cold for days on end.

We tried to get away from it by taking two trips this winter: one to the South Carolina beaches and one to Wilmington, NC. The two trips we took were the only windows we had into really taking in the beauty and the love and the warm welcome that The South has ready for us. The rest of the time, we have been cooped up in the house with the fireplace on and dreaming of far far lands …

If Jung's theory that our ancestors' experiences live deep in our brains amounts to anything, then at least one of my ancestors lived in the American South, at one point. I have no proof of this, and it is probably highly unlikely, but there is something awakened in me when I stroll an old Southern town.

Taking in the architecture, the live oaks, the huge magnolia trees, the endless amount of green lining the cobblestone streets fills my heart with a feeling of the familiar, and of the stuff that “home” is made of. There is a peace, a quiet lull in the speed of life here. The swish of the pine trees outside my house in the silent bright morning. Life is moving slowly here.

Alleyway lined by huge magnolia trees

There is something all-encompassing about olden like oaks. The stories they could tell. 

Strolling on familiar streets has a certain charm to it. Gaping the eyes wide open and losing my retina into the infinite Carolina blue skies connects me to God and beyond. It's a deep connection that I cannot let go of. A connection I craved for several years while away.

I love seeing cardinals in my neighborhood at any old hour. They're happy and feel at home themselves. I love the magnolia blooms which dared to pop despite the crazy weather.

In every grand outdoor staircase of every Colonial house, in every wrap-around porch, under every column, I see like a chimera at least one or two poofy dresses roaming about … Just for a second, and then they're gone. “A civilization gone with the wind ...”

Some of the grand old Colonial homes in Wilmington. You can hear history writing itself at an old rickety table with a squeaky old stylus

Spanish moss has me believing in ghosts again.

Time stood still back when the big mansions were built and they endure today. Manners are not old fashioned, and no one has ever met a stranger. Everyone's everyone else sweetheart, darling, or love. Even the grocery store lady calls us that. We have not met one person that was so much as indifferent to us. Everyone is nice and warm and we count our blessings.

This. This pace, this quiet land, the gratuitous smile of strangers on our weary hearts are balms that cure the longing for far away rocks. These are all reminders that old or new, like it or not, back-paddled or otherwise, we are home. And home is where you start over. And home is where you grow. Looking forward to some nicer weather and more adventures right here, in our new old back yard.

My American life started 20 years ago on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, about a mile away from this very spot. This year, I started my second coming to the South here, too. Just to get perspective, to think, regroup, and recenter. It was as breathtaking, daunting, scary and maddeningly exciting as 20 years ago. This is a sunrise .... 

A Picture a Day. February

If it were not for the birthdays of some people I love, February would be, by far, my least favorite month of the year. Lots of painful things happened in my life in February. It's weird: the shortest month seemed to have had the most impact sometimes ... I always let out a long sigh of relief when it's over ... 

This February was an odd one. For the most part, it felt more like a late April than February. The weather felt like maybe we didn't move to North Carolina, after all, but more like South Florida, or somewhere tropical even. 

We're continuing to explore our surroundings, our neighborhood, the cities around us, the rest of the state. We took our first painting class together and we celebrated a whole month of heart health and rare disease awareness ... As always, February is anything but boring. 

Here is my favorite picture taken this month. 

Click it to start seeing the rest of the February shots. Click "next" after each shot to see February 1st through the 28th. 

10 Years

It's been 10 years since I wrote this (http://wander-world.blogspot.com/2008/02/missing-you.html). A lot happens to us in 24 hours, so you can imagine that a lot has happened in these 10 years.

I have become an aunt, I have a husband, I have lived clear across this continent and then I came back, I got a 'redesigned' heart, I saw some other countries, and the list can go on a mile long. And yet one of the same three cats is sitting next to me as I write this, 10 years later, and probably the same black dog would recognize him again if he ever came back home. So much and yet so little can happen in a lifetime!

The one thing that's remained a constant through all this time has been my daily thinking and missing him. There are things that remind me of him every day, and that is not an exaggeration. I think of him when baseball season starts; I think of him particularly in March, with Spring Training, and in October, with World Series on. I think of him every time I see Pringles and Milano Cookies on the shelf at the grocery store. I think of him when I watch Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, and I wonder if he would have liked it. I think of him when I hear about a newspaper laying off people or folding. Every such news feels like a piece of my flesh is ripped away from my body. I am sure it would feel the same to him, too.

I miss him when I see a black dog, a random mutt-like, black lab-looking dog, because it reminds me of Floyd and his bond with him. I miss him when the Phillies lose, but I get especially sad when they win!

I miss his wit the most. I still use phrases he taught me and chuckle inside when I meet with a situation that I know how he would have received. I almost know exactly what words he would have used. I still picture his mouth grinning, pushing the dimples deep to the sides, his head tilt, and incredulous stare when I speak about liberal politics.

Lately, I have missed him a lot in this political mess of ours. I wonder daily what he would have thought about this headline or the other, because, boy, you can be sure he would have had a strong opinion on everything. On the other hand, I am glad he was spared the true disgrace and despair that followed some years later. I think it would be safe to say he would hurt for America today.

I thought of him relentlessly when I went through my heart surgery. He was so brave in the face of a forlorn diagnosis, he fought with dignity, with hope, with the eyes wide open of the realist that he was, and – most of all – with grace. I wished, in my direst moments, to have had the grace that he showed in his last year of life.

The huge empty spot he left behind 10 years ago is still left open, like a gaping reminder that he was there. Like all of us, he was unique. He was singular. But only like some of the most special people, did he make a meaningful dent into all our existences. It's the sign of a good life, of a well-lived destiny, however short, when you leave a scar this deep.

Yes, it's been 10 years, and as 10 years show, a lot can happen in that time. But really, all we have on this side of the dirt is not years. What we have is barely minutes. Seconds. Short and shallow breaths! He showed me, and all of us, that not a blink needs to be wasted if we want to have a life to show for ourselves when we're gone.

I saw this quote somewhere and it reminded me of him so. Because, in the end, he was ultimately not afraid: "It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live."  And in the end, he lived. 

Miss you today, more than any other day, my dear friend, and hoping you're gracing a better place with your presence today, and forever ...

A Picture a Day. A Project. January

“Photography is the story I fail to put into words.” ( Destin Sparks)

At the end of the last year, I was pretty disgusted with the world. I still am. Our bar has been lowered so much nowadays that I fail to hang on to what's true, and what's real anymore. And I fail to express what I feel, too. In words, at least. 

But one thing I do know for sure. I know that the world is beautiful. That nature is sacred. That God is in everything ... 

So, instead, I will try (make no promises, really!) to turn to the world and let it speak for itself, in the only way I know how: through images. 

I started this album called "2018 - A Picture a Day", and I am trying to not let any one day go by without capturing a picture in it and recording it there. At the end of the month or of the year they will speak, hopefully, louder than my words could express about what I see, feel, watch, experience. 

Here's looking back at January. Can you believe the first month is gone?! 

Although I have a couple of favorites this month, this is my top one - it captures what this month is the best. I think. Click the picture to see the whole month's photos. 

Beyond “The Post”

I'll tell you a story from a long, long time ago – almost 30 years.

I grew up in Communism, through my 15^th year of life. This was your textbook communism, with a dictator at the top and a government so loyal to him there was no room to pry it with a crowbar. The government was made up of not only loyalists to the president, but mostly by his close family members: all the children, his wife, and then extended family.

It was the Communism you (should) learn about in school, where regular people like you and me, regular civilians are forced to believe whatever the one leader of the country says. I took propaganda lessons that I had to pass an exam on every year (these were enforced, you had no choice) for the first eight years of my school life. I had friends whose parents were interrogated and sometimes killed in beatings because they would not think whatever the government wanted them to think. The books we were allowed to read were “edited” by the government, to match the propaganda. Some brave people still had the original copies of uncensored books, but they ripped up their true covers and they wrapped the copies in the covers of the “approved” books, so that the Security police who came searching their homes would not suspect they had “dirty” copies of the censored books.

The local and national papers were all government-controlled. So was the one TV channel the whole country had access to and the one radio channel, too. There was nothing printed, or broadcast on TV or radio that was not controlled by the government. If your radio could reach The Voice of America broadcast, or Radio Free Europe, you'd go to jail for a long, long time, and you would never come out, quite often. As I said: textbook Communism.

And then, when I was almost 15, The Revolution came. One night, a handful of people, lead by mostly writers, artists, and students overthrew the regime, killed the dictator and his wife and we were, dare I say it, free. During that one night, we were cautiously, and very frighteningly, elated by the possibility, by the hope, and the dream, that our little country could possibly now be free. Free to express ourselves, to think what we wanted to think, free to choose our profession without it being chosen for us, free to buy whatever we wanted, in whatever much quantity we wanted to buy!

That one night my dad asked me to tell him just ONE reason for which I am happy that communism is now extinct in Romania. Just ONE reason. So, I told him: I am happy they are gone because now we can have freedom of the press, and freedom of the written word. Now, whenever I read a newspaper or a book, I said, I will be sure I am getting the true writing, intended by the writer, and not whatever a party loyalist deemed to be “appropriate” for me to read.

Many moons later, I am in the US of A, till recently deemed the “most free country in the World”, my dream of being her citizen fulfilled, and I see with my own eyes something that I never thought I would see again: I see how politicians attack the press, deeming it untruthful and lying, while they proclaim to their supporters that they, and only they and their loyals, have the whole truth and nothing besides. And the unbelievable happens: the supporters (for they are painfully many) believe this.

It's happening again: I am telling you, dear friends, from personal experience, and not from what someone taught me about Hitler, or Stalin: the first institution a dictator smears and tries to kill is the press. The first value they kill is free speech. Their very first step is to denigrate it. And for us, here, in the US, at least for now, this works! 

The reason, of course, is simple. But blinded as we are in America, by the freedom we have taken for granted for many years, and by the ignorance a mediocre school system and an even more mediocre political education system encourages, we do not see this simple reason: it's the press, and anyone who defends free speech, that must be killed first in order for the leader to manipulate the population however they please. The press makes people think. Tyrants have no need for people's thinking, because the only thoughts that matter to them are theirs. They deny everything else of value, because of the huge ego that they lead with which has to be the one, the only, governing power and focus over all the minions. How else do you submit them?!

There is a very important reason and not a coincidence, that your First Amendment (and not the second or the third) protects free speech. Without free speech, you have no democracy. The rest of the amendments are optional in a democracy. Without free speech you have dictatorship. You have easy mind control, and you have tyranny. Period. End of story. No arguments. History has proven this very big platitude for hundreds of years now. No more proof needed.

The press is and will always be, in my mind, and as a matter of fact, the one defender of free speech. By its very nature, it must be. I recently saw the movie The Post, which is a pretty good story, well done, for many reasons. It resonated with me from many perspectives, not only because of my government-controlled upbringing years, but also from the perspective of being a former newspaper employee and a good (I think) friend to many people who are still in this business or still respect it.

And then I read comments from random people online who said that (I quote from memory because I am too disgusted to go get the actual quote) “I am not going to spend my money on this very clearly far left political propaganda movie. After I have seen enough in the past year and a half to know not to trust these rags.” (referring, perhaps to The Post in particular and newspapers in general?!) This just about broke the camel's back for me.

I have seen these comments (and oh, so much more!) online for the past two years now (and who hasn't, if you're paying attention?!), that Trump and “them” are all good and right and it's the media that makes them look bad. The belief of the ordinary American nowadays is that newspapers and news outlets, somehow are all on this platform to lie about everything Trump, and he, somehow, is the only one telling the truth. This boggles my mind, in a way, and in another: I can totally see what he's doing and how … it's working for so many people, and to our detriment! The Communism in my little country, just as Nazism in Germany was seemingly the “will of the people” when first instated.

Just to make sure I get it out there: I am not endorsing The Post, or any other particular newspaper or news outlet. I am just endorsing the thinking, inquisitive, and ever truth searching human mind. The Post (in the movie and in the past few years) has just merely exposed mostly (if not always in entirety) verifiable truths that should at least make us think of where we get our news and who we can trust. All this while our political leaders have done nothing but stepped from one wasp nest into another, amongst law suits, mystery accusations, revolving doors of firing and hiring for key-level positions, and yes, lies. A lot of lies that have been proven not once, or twice, but multiple times by many sources to be just that. But I am getting ahead of myself, because I do not want to keep this entry specific to a particular regime, person, or time in history. The lesson that The Post, the movie, teaches us, I think, is much deeper, and much larger than any one reality.

Anyone who knows me and has read my blogs knows: I rarely do politics, but these things had to be said:

• Politicians lie. No matter which side of the aisle you're on, even the best of them, even the ones I deem to be my favorite, most inspiring, true in character and morality, they all lie. For whatever reason, security, or politics, they all lie. Little lies, big lies, they all do it. They seldom apologize for it, and they seldom get caught. They have armies of staff to bury the evidence. This is not conspiracy theory, this is fact.
• After spending 10 years amongst journalists, I am here to tell you: they lie much, much less than any politician I have ever experienced. For obvious reasons, but if you're having trouble knowing what they are, I will spell some of them for you:
  • Their lies are 100% verifiable and they have zero protection against them. They have no secret police, no PR protecting them. It's their word against the mountain of evidence, and their lies, if they happen, are very short lived.
  • Their lies are insular: if one reporter or even one paper lies, and it is a legitimate lie, the rest of the papers will live with one goal in mind and that is to prove the truth. There is no way, in my experience, that all (or most of) the news outlets in the nation lie about the same one time. Report the same thing, sure? But not after much source vetting do they all publish the same thing in every outlet.
  • Their lies are almost always 100% suicidal: they will never write for a paper/ media institution again if they are found, and they will die of hunger – quite plainly.
  • More than any other profession I have ever been exposed to, journalists keep each other accountable. They have this incredible pride in what they do that they do not allow doubt to seep into their business, at any cost: they know that if they lie, their peers, and their competitors will prove them wrong and all will be lost – their credibility is much more important to them than any one story in all its sensationalism.
    I should mention here that I am speaking of journalists who represent legit sources, your Posts, Times, your NPR come to mind but are just a couple, of course – there are thousands out there. I am not referring to your tabloids and scandal reporting, which I hardly would call “journalism”.
• Journalists, unlike politicians, do not have the power, therefore there is nothing to abuse. They cannot sway the masses in one way or another. Sure, they can try, but you won't get 100 news institutions swaying in the same direction. There is competition, point of view, difference of opinion (which is the foundation of the news landscape, really) that news institutions thrive on and need for their mere survival. Tyrannical, one-opinion minded politicians need uniformity and conformity. Diversity is chaos to them, and they want it put out, for fear of undermining them.
• Another thing I see very clearly in our current political system: the need of the main leader to be surrounded by either family, or people stupider or less prepared (Gosh, is it even possible anymore?!) than themselves. This is, of course, also done in an effort to make them look like the only authority and supreme source of knowledge. This is typical, my friends, of tyranny. Mind my words: textbook!

In the many years I spent at a daily newspaper, I have learned that there is one thing that moves a true journalist: the chase for the true story, the meaning of it, the history of it, and getting all those facts on paper. They skip meals, they work crazy hours, they drive distances on their (very puny) salary to get to the true meaning of a story. It is probably childish and silly to say this, but I am going to say it: they don't want to manipulate, they just want people to know the real story. I don't even think they care whether anyone agrees with them or not. Getting the story is their prerogative, and theirs alone. Writing, in any form, is a pretty solitary business, and so is chasing that story for them. There is a pride in that, a true sense of accomplishment that they're after. And most of them do it with passion and grace. I am yet to find the work ethics and dedication in a work place like the ones I knew in the newspaper business!

From knowing what I know about politics, these are foreign concepts to people in the leadership of this country, or any other, really. Before you slap me for my puerile credulity, I will tell you that no, I don't believe all reporters tell the truth. But I will say that most of them do, for the reasons I briefly shared above, and possibly a lot more. I will also know, deep down in my heart, that politicians will lie to just about anyone, about just about anything to save their rung on their ladder.

Surviving for the journalist equates with the truth. For the politician, survival is keeping in power, however you can hold on to it. This is why you see politicians not conceding races right away: because they think there is always a way they could have won that power.

After our elections, I have thought we could not lower ourselves in a deeper darkness and mire. But I was wrong, for the true walk through the darkness can only now begin: us turning a blind eye, not staying vigilant, not demanding our press to stay free and open and yes, controversial and competitive, is what is going to slip us surely into the deep and muddy and empire of darkness which will ultimately threaten our very being.

The last thing we need is one person to tell us how it is, and us not to interpret and weigh in on our decisions and options. One person to offer us one pill of knowledge and us run with it, without questions and doubts. Sure, thinking is hard. But trust me: falling asleep and waking up with someone else's brain in your head is much, much harder to stomach!

I do think that one line from The Post summarizes the whole movie, the events that it depicts quite beautifully and the lesson those events drive home. I also think that this one line carries a much heavier message about why it is still important to trust the written word, and to value the right to public opinion, and why it is still and will always be important in a true democracy to do everything we can to preserve the right to free speech. That line is, in paraphrase: “Journalism is the first rough draft of history.” If we don't know our history, we're doomed to repeat it. The good but especially the bad of it. We owe it to our children to help that, if we can. And we can. We may not want to (it's tough work, I get it), but we certainly can.

Thoughts on the Cusp of the New Year

Disclaimer: I have had this blog cooking in my head for a few days. Last night, I came up with a killer title for it. Today, the tile is completely gone. I cannot remember even one word of it. I hope the compromise one I chose instead will still do. 

On every New Year's Eve, I always ponder upon our lives, our journeys, and the accomplishments or lack thereofs in the year closing. So, today is no different than any of the other 40+ Eve's that I have left behind me.

But I think this past year (2017), I have asked myself more the questions of “why?”, “why now?, “why us?” more than any other year in my life. As the world seems to grow smaller, and angrier, and more crowded, less patient, and less respectful, I wonder daily what is the purpose of us all, and what kind of cataclysm doomed us to whatever it is happening now and whatever might be coming up next.

2017 has been a year of everything for us. As any life goes, it's been a year of amazing personal peaks and disappointing lows: we saw some new countries to us, we have seen most of our close family, some of which we had not seen for years, we made closer friends, we did some good for our charities, it was my first (air) travel year after my surgery and it all went well. I almost did manage to go through the year without an ER visit, all the way until the very end. But I was happy that the one ER visit I did have was not heart-related. Or at least not directly.

But personally, we have also seen some of the lowest lows, too: the insecurity and uncertainty of losing a job, the horror of a cancer diagnosis amidst our close family members, the need to uproot once again (at 40 something and 50 years of age) to settle in a new state – this last one is more of a bitter-sweet transition, rather than a low point, or at least we hope it is not all low.

All this, while the world seems to spin faster and faster out of control! And I am not sure whether it's just aging, but this year, for the first time, I felt like the state of the world affects the state of my being more than ever!

I don't think globalization can be stopped or changed anymore: used to be that events that happened in other countries had no potential of ever affecting us. But that is not the case anymore. What happens in Iran, Iraq, Korea, Japan, Israel, Russia, the UK, France, you name it … can affect us here, in a small town in NC, or AL, or anywhere nondescript. If this past year has taught us anything is that the world is our oyster. For better or worse!

With social media and its free and available nature, we are constantly exposed to evil, from near and far. Why do people choose evil over good is still beyond me!

I know people who unconditionally believe in the good in all of us. I have had doubts my whole life about this, but it must be true: if it true that we all come from God, then it must be true that we all have some good in all of us. What I fail to see lately is people finding that good that's already inside them and greeting the world with that, rather than with the sea of badness they're filled with. The willingness to show good, and to do good is a weakness anymore. You're a hippy, a 'sissy', or a 'chick' if you're soft, and kind, and caring … - none of which is a compliment, of course.

It's a tough world out there and I think it will be tougher. Disrespect and hatred seem to be accepted anymore, and although I do see a lot of my friends take a firm stand against it all, I don't see much changing in the bigger picture. Sure, with each individual action of resistance and setting the record straight, the evil has one less chance to win, but the evil is still out there – supported and advertised by people in power.

It boggles my mind that people still support Trump! I am not saying they “support the Republican party”, but that, still, puzzles me, as well. But they support him, the man! I cringed when the results of the “most popular man of the year” survey came out and every news organization blasted that the news was “shocking” that Obama was more popular than Trump. Other than the platitude of findings (is there really a comparison between the two?!), I was floored that the news was that “Trump got 14% of the votes while Obama got 17%.” Really?! You're telling me that Trump is only three percent points less popular than Obama?! I wish I were a better writer to explain to you how much that 14% really stings. Double digits! Really?! Forgive me for not seeing the silver lining here.

I understand freak personalities that come every once in a while during the history of mankind. Like bad seeds that sprout weeds, they happen to humans as much as to plants. I can even understand freak circumstances that might allow them to go far and succeed in oppressing others' dignities. But I have never understood the support. The millions of others who accept this as a way of life. As a standard for all of us. Many days nowadays have me wonder: “in what universe is this thing legal? And accepted?” And yet, things that appall me happen every day with zero consequence!

It makes me angry that after so many thousands of years, after so many history lessons, after so much angst and turmoil, after countless losses as a universe, we're regressing so much as opposed to progressing and enhancing our humanity.  

But I seldom do politics. However, I feel like this year, more than anything, this transcends politics. Just like I knew this country was headed for failure after W. Bush was in the office and supporting mediocrity, I know we're in more trouble now than we have ever been before. When something reminds me of something darker, crueler, even less humane (if such a thing is even possible) than Communism, trust me: we're in for deep, troubled waters.

As a country, as a world power, but most importantly, here at home, as a community. I fear for us, as women, people of color or of other nationalities, children with disabilities. I fear for us as a social class, and as a community. I fear we're losing something that we don't know we're losing till it's all gone and too late to get it back.

I am looking for answers, and for the first time in a long time, I fail to see where they might come from. Both in Europe, as whole (Romania in particular), and here, I feel the fastened pulse of a people in despair and rage. And for the first time in a long time, a people hopeless.

There have not been many years where I wished for the old year to never end. I am usually hopeful that the new year will bring us more health, more joy, more wealth, more love, and more togetherness than the year we're closing. This time, I don't ever want 2017 to end. I am scared that what the new year will bring will be darker, more grim and sadder than what we're leaving behind. I am scared that it might bring us something we're hardly prepared to handle at all. Something beyond our imaginations.

I wish I could truly say it's up to us how to put together the next 365 pages of our lives, our 365 chances to screw it all up or make it all better. But I am not believing these words anymore. There seems to be so much in this world that eludes us that controls us, and our every day, more lately than ever. Staying vigilant is only half of the answer. The other half is truly fighting this. But when there are no laws to encourage and support our fight, it is hard to fight back. And for the hippy in me fighting is ever the solution or the victory.

One promise I can make myself, and my family: I could try to not let this harden and embitter me beyond graciousness. I will try to let what is good in me win me over and allow me to put it forward, instead of cowardly hiding it as a weakness and I will try to share the goodness at least with people in my immediate realm. I know I can use some kindness – I am willing to be the first one to give mine to others. Giving it to the undeserving will be hard, however. The judge in me won't let that go, unfortunately.

I am not bitter. Just sad and drained by everything I am seeing around me this year. I used to wake up every morning and check my emails. My husband calls it “checking in with the world.” Nowadays, I fire up my news-feed first thing in the morning, before I do anything else. I need to check and see whether I do have a world to check in with anymore.

In the end of this long and strained year, I leave you with the lyrics of one of my favorite poets which I think summarize sort of how I feel right now:

“Did you know freedom exists
In a school book?
Did you know madmen
Are running our prison
Within a jail, within a gaol
Within a white free protestant
Maelstrom

We're perched headlong
On the edge of boredom
We're reaching for death
On the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us.” (Jim Morrison – Freedom Exists)

I wish you all a kinder and easier year in 2018. May you all find that something that's already found you and hopefully that something is good.

'The Ghosts of Christmas Past'

I have always faulted Romanians for living in the past. Their present, for as long as I have lived, has always been grim and disappointing, and they always take refuge in the past. “Yes, this government is more corrupt than any government in the history of the country, and our standard of living is below poverty for 99% of the population, BUT … Europe won the Second World War with our oil and we gave the world insulin and Nadia Comaneci!” Who cares, right?!

But as I age, I find myself looking back to the past more and more. Not sure if as much as a refuge from the present, but just as a contemplation of where this aging body has been – a long journey, full of good remembrances!

This Christmas, I have spun through my head the memories of my life, at Christmastime, like you spin an old movie reel. And they are so many and so different. I have been lucky to not only have a family who is very much into Christmas, but to have come across, over the years, families that adopted me at this time of the year and shared with me their traditions as well. I have been exposed to a smorgasbord of Christmas pastimes, so my memories are very eclectic.

When we were little kids, I remember mom and grandma taking us to the most central park in our hometown where we would watch the lighting of the tree and the temporary statue of Santa Claus. We did not have the Santa that lets you sit on his lap at the mall. We didn't have a mall. We had this giant, wooden Santa, about 30 feet tall standing by the city tree. It boggled my little mind how this huge Santa would even fit through our door to come drop off the presents – this was just the beginning of my doubting nature. There were no carols, really, because it was during communism and we were not allowed to carol churchy stuff. Our family sang carols, but it was very much hush-hush. Christmas was about winter and Santa, not about Jesus. For this reason, we never went to Church on Christmas.

We went to see the tree and Santa on Christmas Eve, not 10 weeks before Christmas started. Everything started then on Christmas Eve. We even made our own tree on The Eve, too, not weeks before. We would have the tree up till January 8^th, after celebrating John the Baptist's feast and Jesus's Baptism. We did say “Happy Holidays” in December, and we still do, back home, and that was not because of some anti-Christian agenda, but because we really did celebrate multiple holidays: Christmas, New Year's with its feasts, John the Baptist, and Jesus's baptism. I never thought that there is something wrong about saying “Happy Holidays” till later in my life, when I moved to the US.

After the Christmas tree and Santa viewing, mom and grandma would take us home which always smelt like food. Cozonac mostly (a Romanian sweet cake) but also lots of meats, mostly pork products. We ate Christmas Eve dinner in the family, always, and then the adults would distract us so they can sneak some presents under the tree and tell us Santa stopped by with presents. They were wrapped in newspaper – I still remember how I hated that ink from the paper making my white fingers black. I remember the smell of the ink, too.

I don't remember getting more than one present. When we stopped believing, we got presents from the parents, grandparents and some relatives, but again, just one from each party and not even wrapped or under the tree. They would just buy us something and they would say “this is your Christmas present”. The joy of finding things under the tree and unwrapping them as a family came much, much later in my life. I grant America with revealing that wonder to me.

In Romania, Christmas (and Easter, for that matter) lasts for 3 days. On the 25^th, 26^th, 27^th of December we took turns visiting people we knew, mostly relatives, and they took turns visiting us. With every visit, we would eat a 10 course meal, with all traditional foods: several kinds of sausages freshly made from a pig that just got killed, sarmale (cabbage and grape leaves rolls), pork meat in aspic, lots of appetizers, including meatballs and boeuf salad, which in fact almost never had any bouef in it at all. We would eat all these foods, prepared tens of different ways in our home and every home we visited for three days straight. I swear our stomachs expanded this time of the year.

In the city, we did not get carolers for Christmas much, but we would get them for New Years. They could sing about the New Year, which seemed more lay than the birth of Jesus, so this was safe. This was the Christmas at home, in the city where my parents lived.

Christmas in the mountains where I grew up was much different. There, it was all about Jesus. People in the mountains were simple and as simple people come, their lives revolved around the church. And they cared little about communism. Communists also cared little about them, too. Communists knew that mountain are remote places with stubborn people and they did not ever care to even try to brainwash them. Mountain people had the notion of private property, they killed their own pig in their own yard and did not have to give The Government any piece of that! They also believed in Jesus and they were extremely respectful of the faith. I cherished that! They did have carolers every year, and every carol was about The Birth, and Jerusalem, and Mary and Joseph. Sometimes, they would sing about making bread on Christmas with a broken oven and a broken pot, but making bread nonetheless, which tasted sweetest, because it was made in the family.

The mountains always got snow, too – so it was a magical fairy tale time to spend Christmas there.

We had a tree in the mountains that one of the older boys in the family cut themselves in the forest right behind our house. We would trim it with pine cones, mostly – not with the fancy, colored, glass ornaments we had in the city. The tree was in our room, which was the main room of the house, the living room and dining room, too. It smelled so good and piney in there. We would fall asleep with the sound of crackling fire logs in the wooden stove, every night and we were tipsy from drinking red wine. Yes, even as kids, we would drink some: it was in a way, we were told, medicinal, to drink mulled red wine; it would keep colds away. Carolers came on Christmas Eve and we would give them nuts, apples and sometimes real food too. We only gave some money to kids related to the family.

Communism was over and Christmases changed for us in the city. We had carolers there, too, and it became a lot more commercial: we got nice presents, wrapped in nice paper, or bagged in nice bags. The food and drinking and carrying on for days was still the same. The closeness of family was nice, too. We are closely-knit families back home as it is, but for some reason getting together for The Holidays (we celebrate New Year's for days, too, then the other holidays of January) was always special: we all contemplated as a family what we left behind in the old year and we made plans on what the new year is going to look like. We hoped. We dreamed. And we shared.

And then, I moved to the US. Here, every year seems different. I have had the good fortune to meet some people that welcomed me into their homes for Christmas and included me in their traditions. And now, after 19 Christmases on this side of The Pond, I have made my own traditions that are a mish-mash of what I have learned from everyone's celebrations, including my family's.

Some memories that come to mind from these past years: the years I spent Christmas with wonderful friends in Charlotte, NC – I am still, to this day, yet to see the amount of presents and bounty that they displaye at Christmas! They are some of the most generous people I have ever known, with warm hearts, too.

For a brief time in my life, I had an uncle (by marriage) and he decorated his house like a Christmas store. There was no shelf untouched, no corner, even the railings of the house were full of Christmas 'scenes' and dripping with artificial snow. He had hundreds of Santa figurines and snowmen, too. He started decorating around Halloween to be ready at Christmas. I spent just two years at his house, for Christmas, but they stick in my mind as being special, because of his joy, like a little kid, showing off his decorated house.

Then, there were Christmases that I spent alone with my cats while being on-call for work. I still cooked like my family taught me, and during my free time, binge-watched Hallmark Christmas movies and marathons of home improvement shows. Having sent off presents to family afar and meeting with other friends around town on non-Christmas days made it feel special to me, in a different sort of way.

One year, I went to a carol concert at a church on Christmas Eve, invited by a, then, coworker. She and her husband were alone that evening and would not let me go to be alone at my house: they invited me for dinner at their house instead. They had a tree and a simple dinner (I don't remember what it was, but not sure it was ham and fixings at all). It felt a little uncomfortable at first, but in the end I felt less alone.

Southern Christmases are truly the best: the weather is amazing (I don't miss snow on Christmas at all – never have!), you can walk after a big meal, and people are nicer and calmer – it really brings out the best in them. I love the Salvation Army bells in the South, too, with people dressed up like Santa ringing them.

Then, we moved to Utah, as a family. I made a promise to myself that as long as there is breath in me, I will have a Christmas tree in the house - and so far it has kept. We made a tree every year, and although our stay in Utah will not stand out as a friend-making experience, we managed to have a Christmas gathering at our house and sometimes a second or third one at someone else's every year. We shared foods, and stories, and presents and learned about what other people, some strangers to us, had planned for The Holidays. These gatherings were that much more meaningful as they were rare and we felt lucky to be invited to them and to be able to invite others to our home, too.

Also, in Utah, we have learned about “neighbor's gifts”: you're supposed to give something, anything, to all your neighbors. We got stuff from many people we didn't know – small things, like a box of tissues (really!), or more significant things from our next door neighbor who we did know (like a garden lantern).

One of the strangest Christmas memories will probably be the one from our last year in Utah: for 12 days straight we got presents from a “Secret Santa”: we got everything from chewing gum packs and beef jerky to bottles of soda and a tub of ice cream.” To this day, we will never know who that person was, but for the “12 days of Christmas” they kept giving us presents.

This year has been a hard personal year for us and even harder for our extended family. With our cross-country move, I started Christmas preparation and sending gifts to far-away family late and not with much enthusiasm. Some of the presents won't make it there in time. We do have a tree, but we downsized the present buying for ourselves this year – after all, we bought a whole new house, right?!

Every year since I started to consciously build my own traditions, I try to do something “Christmassy”, meaning something that you can only do around this time of the year: like going to a Christmas play or concert, or the Christmas market bazaar, or going to see some Christmas lights somewhere. I am not sure why this is important to me, but it is. Maybe it's my dad reminding us to take time for “special” things, because this is how memories are made – and, like I said, you don't get to these things year-round. So, I take the time to do them this time of the year.

I know it's not a popular idea to buy “stuff” for people around Christmas – which has nothing to do with the holiday itself. But if this is how you understand the holiday, I would say it's OK. I do want to see (or imagine) the eyes of people I love glisten with anticipation as they open my presents, knowing that this is my way of saying I am thinking of them. We cannot be close to all family at Christmas, as they are all so far away. But knowing I can send them a token of love and acknowledgment that they are indeed special makes my holiday brighter. This is the same reason why I still send cards to my special people. I get it that it could be consumerism, but I see it as sharing my bounty with people I love.

I don't really get all the cooking, either – but I embrace it as a custom given to me by my family and by people I love. I have a friend who always says that she cooks for people because she doesn't know how else to say “I love you”. I agree to that.

But I digress. Back to not feeling enthusiastic this Christmas.

For weeks now, I have thought about what to cook for Christmas, and I am not feeling like cooking at all. All I want is just to look at my tree, snuggle with Gypsy and close the door on the world for a few days, under a blanket with a trashy magazine.

But I did find some drive to cook and we will have our own traditions, like we normally do, because I cannot bear being a Grinch, no matter what my life is doing. It would feel like I have given up, if I were, and life still has so many beautiful reasons to celebrate. We will open presents over mimosas and breakfast casserole on Christmas Day (a tradition I stole from my Charlotte friends), we will speak with relatives, and watch Christmas movies, me, over eggnog, and Aa. over wine or a mixed drink. We might even make a fire, too. We will nap and read and walk in the crisp air, too. Because we are back in the land where we are lucky to have friends, we hope to see some of them over Christmas and New Year's as well.

Maybe my looking back through the memories is, in fact, a way to escape the present, which is challenging my patience and peace of mind right now. Maybe, I am just Romanian, after all. And yes, this is very much, tongue-in-cheek.

Whatever Christmas is to you, I hope it is warm, healthy, calm, long and lingering. I hope you find at least one reason to smile, many reasons to celebrate, and look forward to what's beyond this time, with hope and dreams anew.

Happiest of Holidays, everyone! 

Still my most favorite Christmas picture. We were young and unassuming. All four of us. 

Our World on the Thankful Day

Tomorrow will be a month since we touched North Carolina land for the first time as a family. Although I have lived here before for 12 years, although we have known each other for 10 years, my husband and I, and although we have been married for seven of those, we have never lived in North Carolina together, as a family. This is our first Thanksgiving in NC together. In our new home.

Today is when I usually get melancholy about life. Never during a year do I feel the passing of time more palpably than around late fall, beginning of winter. I just look back at the year past and just sigh … so many undeserved highs, so many painful lows, I ask myself how we're still standing, and all in all, a life.

This year, I am grateful for the many trips and new places we got to experience, I am grateful for the new opportunities that have been open to us and waiting, patiently, for us to explore and expand. Most of all, I am grateful we're all here, on this side of the dirt, all the people who matter to us, and us, of course.

I am grateful for our new home and for my very old kitty who is spending his seventeenth Thanksgiving with us in it. I am grateful for our means and for the food we put on the table because of them. I am grateful for friends, near and far who care for us and wish us well. We give thanks to you all and hope you know we reciprocate.

The world has been a sad place for the past year particularly. But I am grateful for the handful of people who care and who still fight for what is right, for the less fortunate, and for the ones who cannot speak for themselves. Some days I am not sure this planet will see another day. It's hard to be an optimist anymore. Some days, I do not see the end of this darkness we seem to all muddle through, deeper and deeper, boggled down by confusion, disbelief, sadness and even desperation. So today, I am grateful that I can write this, uncensored and free. Still. This, I shall never take for granted!

I hope that this day has found you all grateful for at least one thing. The world might have a chance yet if it did.

Happy Thanksgiving, you all, and a happy and healthy start to your Holiday Season!

It's good to be back where our post-Thanksgiving feast walk is amongst tall, aging trees, and where it's quiet. No cars. No traffic. No wind. Just peace, trees, and soft Carolina light.