A Change of Season Trip

"Out where your troubles can't find you
Out where you leave ‘em all behind
Out where the moon shines sweetly
Won't you meet me down on the county line”

(Sugarland: County Line)

I take a trip every year, as a rite of passage… For the past two years, it’s been to the wine festival at Smith Mountain Lake, in the heart of Franklin County, VA – Moonshine Capital of the World. Before that, it was Villa Appalaccia, a winery also in VA, on the Blueridge Parkway – for an olive and wine festival.

This journey is so welcome: at the end of a busy year, and typically a busy summer, I need something to put the breaks on, and get me ready for the slow pace of winter, where I’ll have no purpose, other than to exist and eat plenty of warm and home made food. And nothing works better than views of mountains, fall coming, leaves turning, mums in the front yards, the taste of new wine, and chilling over a bottle of gossip with dear friends, in the crisp mountain air. The stillness of the mountains, and the closeness to the wine making process, which is patient, and slow, and artful, become intoxicating and transfer into life itself!

Up there, in the mountains, where time stands still, and moonshine is smooth and plenty, and wine is sweet and clear, where people talk slow and hurry for naught, where old houses smell like rotting wood, and kitchens smell like fried thick cut bacon and fresh biscuits in the morning, you get lost. They can ask you your name and you don’t even remember that! And it’s all a good thing!

This year’s wine fest was wanting to be a big wash out: there was rain, rain and more rain in the forecast. But we would not have it. Rain coats, umbrellas, and all, we went to the middle of the pasture, anyway! We sampled wine, with umbrellas in one hand, and cameras in the other! We sampled home made cakes and dips, and the overwhelming mud puddles were not going to put a damper into our day! It’s the company and the attitude that carries you through, and that was the case for us!

Muddy and wet, happy, and buzzed, we went through the day in glee and silliness!

24 hours of that kind of escape feels like a 2 week vacation in the Caribbean! (without the stress over the overpriced umbrella drinks!). You wander about on country roads, and your friends drive recklessly, because they can, and because they’re free, and because the cops are at the wine festival and don’t care. And after all, you’re in the middle of nowhere, so there are no laws! You can be a kid again and let loose. For one day, you’re as free as the clouds wandering on the peaks. As free as the wine pouring into barrels – unbounded!

Your only worry is only “my glass is empty. Someone, please, pay attention!”.

It’s also a time when I reconnect with friends and find out they’re still there for me! Just like the harvest time, when we’re all grateful to the Earth for giving us the food, in the fall, I am also grateful for the friends! After we have all attended to family affairs all year long, and to too much work, we’ve finally slowed down enough to meet and give all of us a break!

I am so grateful for those friends! And for their gift of welcoming me, and making my yearly retreat ever so welcome! Don’t ever change!! Or move …

Thank you!

Commitment to Love

"People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes. All is a miracle." (Thich Nhat Hanh)

I have always thought that God forgot to put a biological clock in me. But maybe it's because I was brought up in a 'love story family', as my dad calls it... Maybe I was raised to believe that kids are the center of the parents' universe, and that they are the fruit of their love.

Maybe because of that, I have always loved kids and I always wanted to be a teacher when I grow up. Or maybe it's because I can never have my own child?! Or maybe it's just because I am a new aunt, and I am head over heels in love with my nephew.
Who knows? Whatever the reason, children's stories move me anymore...

Last Friday I went to visit an orphanage in the area, and bring the kids a pre-holiday gift bag, with a cd player, a t-shirt, a backpack, and a soft toy.

When I was growing up, to enforce discipline, my dad would threaten me and my sister that he'll "send us to the orphanage if we're not good". We always asked "what is that?", and he would say: it's a cold and dark place like a prison, where you get no toys, people are mean to you, and you never see your parents again, until you're 18. It didn't sound much like fun.

And I have always seen, with the rest of the world, the CNN documentaries that made Romanian orphanages famous around the world for the wrong reason. But I have never been to an orphanage before - until this Friday.

It was everything and nothing like I imagined. This one, was not just one dark and cold building, like my dad's description said, but a whole campus of cottages that looked very "homey". Each cottage had a "parent family", which typically is a married couple with kids of their own, that live in that cottage as their home. With them, in the same cottage, several orphans share the space as well. I am not sure what kind of room arrangement they have, as for our visit, we were welcome to the gym, but I imagine it's more like a dorm?! So maybe a couple of kids share a room?! But a small scale dorm, since each cottage has 7-9 orphans living there and the houses don't look huge. Should I say "students"?!

We met some of the teachers, and they all seem like nice, friendly, very well rounded people. Not some drill sergents that my dad was talking about. They have nice families, and some wear even designer shoes, ahve stylish haircuts and lots of make up. They're friendly. They smile.

And then, we met the orphans and my heart just about stopped. They were teens, between 11 and 17, I would say. They had a look on their faces that will chase me for the rest of my life: it betrayed fear, and sadness, but also trouble, and watchfulness. It told about loneliness and hardships. You could tell. Their hands were coarse, with blunt nails that they have been biting, and their facial features hard. Some of them were absolutely model material gorgeous. Just beautiful, gorgeous kids. But their eyes had the same fear, and they looked around like they were waiting for something bad to happen, or careful not to be struck by surprise, by something that to me was not there.

They behaved in the only way, I think, abandoned kids would: to attract attention to themselves: they were loud, spoke very dirty, and they were pushing each other, and hanging off of basketball baskets instead of playing ball. They were kicking the bleachers instead of walking on them. They had rage. Again, against something that was not there for me. Deeply rooted rage. Untamable.

They looked like beautiful lions stuck in cages at the zoo: smart, quick and gorgeous, and having to be good for the man who feeds them, but not happy with it. There was a sneakiness about them.

We were told that not all the kids were there that weekend: that the orphanage encourages those who have a chance to spend the weekend with their families, to re-develop that relationship. That made me wonder: what would be worse: to know you're an orphan, and to know you were given up, and to know your family, but know that they can't take care of you, and at the end of every weekend they send you away? Or not to know them at all, and always wander what they look like, who they are, and why they left you to no one? I think both predicaments are equally heartbreaking!

Our organization brought a group of little girls who danced for them, and did ballet. The little girls in the dancing group were adorable. They were small, and klutzy, and cute as a bug's ear. We all melted, and laughed because they could not find their place, their props, or their beat. The orphans didn't find all that amusing at all. They were serious. Stern and matter of fact. What was funny to all of us, and endearing, stirred almost no reaction/ emotion in them, it seemed. You felt like in their world fun is measured by completely other dimensions than in ours.

It's heartbreaking for me to see that what comes from what generally is accepted as a love act, is so deprived of love. I felt like the orphans have always been missing just the human touch. The hugs, and tuck-ins that all the kids are getting when they grow up. The kisses in the morning when they go to school, the re-arranging of that curl on the forehead, the heart-felt "I love you"-s when they go to bed, or when they go to school in the morning. The approving and re-assuring smiles of the parents when they do something good.

They looked human. But afraid and cold, like they did something wrong. They looked guilty - but they didn't know what the guilt was?! Is being born a sin?! Their guardians were nice, and friendly, but no matter how much you try, the nurturing love that comes natural to a loving parent the teachers might not have.

I felt for a moment that I want to adopt them all! I felt such an enormous love, and compassion for all of them. Just some innocent souls that have never asked to be brought on this planet, and have been born, and left to the winds, to find their own ways.

Someone said that weeds are flowers devoid of love, I think... It's easy to see how these children can choose to be weeds, as they intrinsically know that they were not loved to be flowers. They have a stubbornness about them that betrays some kind of revenge towards the world. The world that has allowed this to happen to them. This loveless, cold and dark world.

I don't judge the parents who make that choice. I can't. I would not know where to begin to do that . Some parents really don't make it, if they die and have no one left, the choice is made for them, perhaps. There are as many stories of abandoned children as they are abandoned children, I am sure. It is just a sad, sad reality that's around us, and that has moved me beyond tears.

Some people asked me what "funstuff" I did on a Friday night. I would not have traded this visit for the world! Now, I have a clear and distinct picture of what orphans look like and need and want. This visit opened my veins to love, and protect the kids I know.

Yesterday, I got to read the "thank you" notes they sent to our organization for the gifts we gave them. It again made me cry. They can find in their hearts to give back even if the world has not given to them. The depths of human love and compassion are once again leaving me speechless!! This gesture gave me hope. When I saw them on Friday, I was wondering: will they ever be able to give love in return, since they don't even know what it looks like or feels like to get it?!? But the simple gesture of taking the time to write "thank you for my gifts: I could not wait to get out of school to go to my room and listen to my cd player" made me sleep last night, with the hope that they will be different. I hoped that the kindness of teachers, and the kindness of organizations like ours, the ballet representations, the innocence they get exposed to will, hopefully, in the long run, open their hearts to the beauty and the love that this world indeed has. I hope!

I have been watching videos of my nephew all week, and I cannot wait to hold him in my arms again in a couple of weeks. The amount of love I can give him seems endless right now. The amount of hugs and kisses - the same. Such a fragile, innocent blossom, and we, adults, have such responsibility and accountability towards them!

I want him to grow with his eyes full of love and trust. Not fear. With his smile forever cemented on his face. With his heart big, and his eyes curious. I want him to know he is important enough not to ever want to attract attention upon himself. He can just ... be. I want him to give hugs in return, and be compassionate, and loving. I want him to have everything all the unwanted children of the world cannot have: a hug in the morning, and kiss good night on the forehead at night. And a meaningful "I love you" every day of his life!

And, after Friday, I have added a new line to my prayers. I will now also pray for the abandoned souls of the earth, everywhere. May God and Nature take care of and protect what humans could not.

And just to share, the picture of my love, here's my nephew:

Depression

I remember when being an American was a cool thing. Not long ago, in fact, it was a thing to be desired, and lied for, and proud to snatch! I remember when immigrating to America was the highest of dreams one can achieve .

But is it anymore??!!

People close all sorts of doors to Americans all over the world - more so than they open them in fact. Americans are scorned upon in Europe and in the Middle East. In Asia and Canada. In Latin America, too ... I guess Americans have gotten used to that kind of scorn. Hatred is better than ignorance, right?! At least everyone minds them. Until now!
Until recently, they still had the economic power to not worry too much about a couple of oh just so random little feelings some of the rest of the world out there held towards them.
Until now, I say ...

Nowadays, not many people go to Europe for vacations. For a while now, the middle class (all ranks), and not only them, has not been able to afford it... What's even sadder now: Canada is even more expensive than here, as well! Canada is too overpriced for America now!!! No trips to Canada?! Our "poor sister"?? Depressing...

No matter what their fist-cliched-over-heart patriotism will try to tell you, Americans do not hold their heads up high out there in the world anymore. They still have big patriotic hearts, and big mouths, here, but they cannot do that abroad. And they know it. If they still do, stubbornly, they look ridiculous and they should know it! Americans - humble?! That's a dimension I am still waiting to see ...

It's also depressing to see my Eastern European parents begging me to come back home, because, "honey, let's face it: it's better here! More safe!". I didn't think I'd live the day when the job market would look better in Romania than here!

When I was growing up, during Communism, America was the Heaven on Earth where people had everything they wanted, without rationing, and without standing in lines! Everything was plenty and available around the clock. All you had to do was get a job!

Not anymore... I went to WalMart tonight, and not only were the lines for gas unbelievable, but they had police forces to regulate the traffic in and out of the parking lot. They were also out of two of of three kinds of gas! And the gallon is not all that cheap, there, either, at $3.75 - but much cheaper than my neighborhood, where it's $3.98! Other parts of town display prices over $4.00 even.

America was supposed to have plenty of gas, and we were supposed to use our cars whenever we wanted, to go wherever we wanted, and to always fill up the tank, every time we pull up for gas! Not just get "just enough to make it". Not anymore. Not when there are stations that ration how much you can buy, or even ones that are closed down. Americans have to become mindful of spending, just like the rest of the world, anymore, it seems.

The Land of Plenty has all of a sudden become The Land of Plenty to Worry About!

Also during Communism, Romania's dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu, was asked by the starving and freezing people, one winter, to give them more heat in their apartments (heat was centralized by the State, just like everything else). Ceausescu's answer was: "Put on another sweater! And if you have two on already, put a coat on! You'll be warm!".

My dad used to tell me then that I needed to move to America, where heat is plenty and affordable and I'll never be cold again!
Given the past few nights of chilly weather, I am trying really hard not to turn on the heat!! I am not sure I'll go through the winter if I start the heat in September, money-wise!! I am worried about losing my job every day, and I am not sure how I am going to pay my bills if that happens. I am trying to save and not splurge right about now. So, I'll give turning on the heat another thought, and in the meantime, I'll put on another sweater, and another blanket on, too, at night! Natural gas, too, as we all know, is so high as well!

When I was growing up, with the dreams of the Promised Land, I tell you: I have never thought it would look like this.
All around us, we see people saving, afraid for their jobs, laid off, companies shut down, people losing homes. Every morning, another huge corporation goes bust ... I know I am not saying anything new to anyone.

The only point I was trying to make here was that, on a personal level, this hurts! This is a chipped dream, and I don't do well with disappointments. I cannot look my parents in the eye and admit that I have failed in my choices! It's not the natural path of an (over)achiever!

I guess it is true what they say about big empires: they have their rise, and they have their fall. I hope this is just a temporary hiccup for this empire, though. I hope history has taught many lessons and illuminated minds can fix this. It's definitely, I think, important enough to make a spot in the history books.

Sure, America still has her freedom, which will lure millions still, decade after decade. But increased want for basic needs (and I don't even want to go anywhere near healthcare talks here - I'd need a book), total disregard of the Government for those needs , while fighting wars for sport and just to prove an empty principle instead, will make being an American being more and more un-cool!

I am not going back to Romania, but let me tell you: Canada has sounded sweeter and sweeter every time I have looked at it lately.

"Leave us our broken dreams
We'll give them time to mend" ... or break even worse.
How sad?!
I guess they call it "Depression" for a reason.
This ain't fun!

Stopping for a Moment

"A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone".
(D. Thoreau)

I close the door in the morning. I am careful to lock it twice behind me. Thieves, you know ...

I put the laptop bag carefully in the crate in my trunk, so it won't get smashed, in case of a sudden brake.

I peel the potatoes the only way I learned how: with a knife, not a peeler. Careful not to cut my finger. I add water and boil them... When they are boiled, I am careful to turn off the burner first, and then pick the pot up, drain them ever so carefully so as not to burn my forearms with the hot steam ... But turn the burner off first - so as not to forget and then set the house on fire ...

I turn off computers and servers ... all day long, for a job ... Careful not to crash them ... "Gracefully" - I think- they call it ...'File-Exit-Shut down...'.

And yet, they make band aids for burns and cut fingers. And they give warranties for broken laptops ... and there is always insurance for burnt houses ... and also broken servers.

And yet, I am careless with words I say to people. And statements I make. And there is not one damn thing, insurance, band aid, or other kind of security that can mend a broken heart, a broken bond ... a tearing eye ... from hurtfulness ...

And yet, when it comes to "holding on to the truth" and "stating an opinion" just to "make a point" ... I seem to be fierce ... And I think most of us do. Once I realize the milk has been spilled, I hate myself - which in itself is not healthy .. but it's too late...

The damage, and the unfixable kind, too, has been done ... And only my prayer in people's goodness and ability to forgive (which may or may not be present) is left ... And relying on others to fix what you've done yourself - is that the way to go?!

Why do we do that?!

Why are we more careful with the amount of water we water our yard with rather than the amount of self righteousness we judge our friends, and family, and next door neighbors with?! Since when and how did things become more important than humans?!

When and how are we ever going to learn that there are no fixes for all the burnt bridges and bruised hearts?!?

What can teach us? Other than just stopping and thinking about it ?! And learning to be mindful ... ?! Learning to be mindful, just so we can be less alone ... ?!

Is it fear? Is it pride that pushes us to judge and state our "truths"? Is it control? Or fear of losing it?! Is it ... power? Over what? Or hunger for it?!

I wish I had answers ...

For now, I just have this passage from a book, that made me wonder about all this, and also made me stop, and think, and ask for an apology: it was due time:

" ... 'pride' is really another word for fear. Marlon Brando delivers this truth magnificently in Apocalypse Now when ... he tells his executioner: 'It is our judgement that defeats us'. We become our own executioners when we sit in judgement of our efforts. Only when we act without judgement we can truly flourish in our lives. " (Meditations from the Mat - Gates & Kenison)

On the same sort of note, I find in the same book a quote from Almost Famous: "The only true currency in this bankrupt world is the truth" ...

But we must all realize that other than the absolute truth of the earth and the sky being real, and the rivers flowing to the sea, the human truth, the one linked to the ever changing human body, spirit, and mind is ever so relative. And ever so changing. We must non - attach ourselves from at least that thought: that we could be, at any point, an absolute judge of the human truth...

As my mom has always said: "if it's human, darling, it's imperfect". But ... none the less beautiful, I'd add ... and I'll try to remember it next time... If I am ever so lucky, to have a "next time"...

I am sorry for all the bleeding hearts ... I wish I could nullify the daggers I sent into the world.
I just pray for soul band aids, generosity and forgiveness ...

Belonging ... - An Identity Blog?!

Let me just begin by saying that I love being where I am from. And I would not trade it for the world! I think the complexity and absolute puzzlement of my personality which I love comes from where I am from, and I will never deny my home country, nor ever forget my roots. My roots are the one true, solid thread that I hold dear and gets me through hardships, every day! I would be literally dead without them!

But even so … this came to be written …

I have tried to write this piece for years, probably for as long as I have lived. And there are no words to describe this experience… Sure, you’ve “heard” me talk about my trips, my friends, my family, my cats, and my peeves in traffic and at WalMart … You know I can write about almost anything out there.

But this one’s tough! This one’s on my tough list. Along with the day when I decided my mom was cooler than dad (what a life change!) and the day I knew I was surely heading for a divorce … It’s a tough one …

But I’ll attempt just the tip of the iceberg here – because I know it’ll take several lifetimes to get to the bottom of it!

It’s about never feeling like I really belong to “Romanians” at all … It is strange to say that the culture you grew up into, the only one you experienced and knew until you were 23 … has never felt like home to you. To admit it is one thing. To explain it – is a whole different matter altogether and entirely …

I am not sure I felt “at home” in any culture. Mom was sad when at 16 I started speaking in my sleep … in English. I was in Romania then, with no sure plan of moving to an English speaking country … but somehow my subconscious decided to speak English instead of Romanian …

I guess that was the first time when I realized, “wait up, world! I don’t feel Romanian”?! Who knows … I was definitely escaping something. Or my innermost self was, for sure.

Nowadays, removed from my home culture for over 10 years, I do not seek it. I don’t miss it. And when I am exposed to it, I cringe! The cheap and fake familiarity, the macho-ism, the continual “I am better than you”-isms drain me … I have nothing to show off for them. Actually: I would not show off! Not give “them” the satisfaction!

I never speak of what I have made, and what I have accomplished, and that’s all my ‘Romanian friends’ want to know: how much money, what kind of car, how long I have been here and how much I have gained, why the American last name. One compatriot even said once: “Oh, you’re that kind that slept around for a visa”. I didn’t deny it. All I said was: “What?! You’re jealous?!”. This kind of cheap familiarity is just not my taste. This kind of "the guy gets away with murder and the woman is killed or worse: shamed" is so far from mu cup of soup!

I don’t miss the pettiness. I don’t miss the small world victim show: “Oh, Americans have all the McDonald’s but we have all the history” – makes me puke! Yeah, and what did you do with all the history- I wanna ask?! You moved to America! “History” alone will not keep you fed, and clad, and free, and happy, will it, now?!

They snarl at the American culture. They bite the hand that’s feeding them, and I cannot stop that low.

I don’t miss the fake melancholy: “Oh, when we were back home, the sausages tasted like real meat, and the wine was sweet, not like these prefab ones. Yuck”. Oh, yeah, I want to say: so, move the hell back!

It’s like you’re shipwrecked on this deserted island and the people on that ship speak the same language as you, and you know them all – so there is a certain familiarity there - but at the same time you can’t trust them: because they want your peril, so they can survive! So, the sameness instead of bonding becomes a weapon you can use against them, to survive. And it all becomes … painful, petty, painful … and just troublesome in night, when you’re alone with your thoughts.

I don’t miss the fake patriotism, either: they bring tricolored balloons (red-yellow-blue) to Romanian gatherings, or flowers, or even the flag. I can’t relate to it. That is a country that has hurt me (and all of us) so! A country whose lack of political wisdom, corruption, breaking all the laws and violating all human rights forced all of us to move far, far away and live with no family, and no real bonds. Amongst strangers. Why crave it? Why wish for it? Why cherish it here?!? Why re-live it?! Just to be martyrs? Or victims? That’s so lame. Shallow. Lame and boring.

I bring with me the Romanian things my family gave me; the personal things I want not to share with anyone but my family: the foods, the Saints’ feasts, the customs, the personal touches in the home; the china and art on the walls; the hand painted eggs, and ceramics; the language.

But I cannot get together and wishfully lust for a land and a culture that has raped me of everything sacred that I had, from my home, my family, myself, as I knew me at 23. A culture that has forced me to pack one suitcase full of clothes and run! And never look behind! A culture that still tortures and demeans my family. My flash and blood.

The Romanian culture for me was more like a dura mater rather than an alma mater…

It forced me into an American exile even after my love and marriage had long been dead. There was no way back. Only forward. There are volumes to be written about my American experience and immigration in general. But this was not an easy choice.

So, to get together and celebrate our Romanianism has always just felt a bit masochistic and rude. Rude to our parents left behind. Rude to ourselves and our true feelings.

At least to me. If I cannot have my parents here, the fake love of strangers, I seek note.

It’s part of the whole immigration … odyssey, and it’s very, very hard to explain.

I do not regret my choice. Ever. And I see that some of the things that are Romanian encouraged this culture that pushed me (and us) away: the corruption springs from the jealousy of wanting what the neighbor has and bringing it to the rank of law! Lying, jealousy, and melancholy of the past are basis of Romanian “patriotism”!

Like I have said before: I think of myself as not placed in the world yet, but I love the Romanian in me: the caution, and ingenuity, the ability to not waste as much as my American fellows; the understanding for immigrants and oppression; the respect for everyone around me, and the “small country” frame of mind, of knowing that we’re not alone in the world, and we have to be mindful of all . But I am still uneasy to congregate with my fellow people.

It will be even harder, I know, 20 years from now. A woman without a country you can say I am. I still see myself sitting on the sidewalk in Margate, England, and crying that I don’t want to go back to Romania, because I had found my home. That was 1997. And I guess even earlier than that, at 16, in 1991, I have been looking for home, in my sleep talk.

I guess my roots did get planted firmly in Romanian soil. Forever. But my trunk, and branches, and leaves and blooms chose to belong to other realms. To America? Canada? Europe in general? The world?! They still look bend towards the roots, back towards where they started and to what feeds them, and see the starting point … But just like a graceful willow, they bend towards it, but they’ll never touch it again.

Final note: if this is totally confusing – it’s OK!

The New Camera

I guess the whole world knows (most times it feels that way) that I love taking pictures . My pics’ site is a work in progress, but everyone that knows me knows that I take hundreds of pictures on any of my trips … Sometimes, they are composition pictures, sometimes they are just impromptu shots of a brief moment in time … Sometimes they make absolutely no sense to anyone but me, like a plate full of empty shrimp shells at Awful Arthur’s in the Outer Banks.

I am also not typically a pack rat, unless it’s about pictures and the written word. I am a fierce guardian of those two… Somehow, I value memories, I guess, and I hope this will, at some point in time, pay off – not only for me (which it already has), but those left behind after I will be long gone.

For such a semi-passionate photographer as I like to think of myself, I have never bought a camera. Myself. Until this week. All my cameras have always been given to me. My dad’s camera was the first one I had, a semi-professional one, with film, of course, and which had 5 minutes of settings before you could snap a picture. Nothing even remotely close to a “point and shoot”. Every camera after that was given to me as a present on some occasion or another …

And every time I have felt like I “had to like” it, as a gift horse is not checked for all his teeth, you know …Some of my “gift cameras” I liked, but most of them I didn’t… Most of them – I would have picked differently…

In the past, whether I liked the cameras or not, I had to be pleased with them. They were gifts. I had to show gratefulness and appreciation for the gesture. At least once of those times the camera was bad. Bad-bad. The battery would die after 3 pictures, and the zoom would take at least a whole minute to come out. It was painful! Gosh, anything from that was an improvement!!

I have been looking to upgrade my camera lately from a 3.2 MP one (yep… that’s right!!) to at least a 10 MP one … My 3.2 MP one has been awesome, though: has religiously documented my life for the past 5 years (almost) anywhere from Christmas parties to Vienna, Romania and Canada. It has done its job and I will still keep it and use it. It’s been my veteran camera, for sure. And we have a bond. So, she’s not retired! Just … moved to part time! This week, a new full time camera has been put in place.

This time around, I feel I am on no guilt trip! If it’s broken, or otherwise I don’t like it, I can return it in 30 days … But this time, I love my camera too!! I picked it out, after a long search. And trust me: I was choosy!!! I shopped and shopped, I went to stores and played with real life cameras, and I knew what I wanted … When I got the right size, and weight, I shopped online and added to the features … I am happy.

As of yet, I have not had much time to play with it, but I did shoot some “around the house” scenes just to test it out … and I am tickled… Of course, I had never had this much resolution and this much zoom – I am so easy to please there…

I feel like I have accomplished something, but I don’t feel just as good as I did when I got my first typewriter (also a gift)… Then, I was in so much shock, I just smelled it and touched it for days, before I put paper in it … I guess I’ll always be a talker before I am a watcher … so writing IS my main vice!

It is similar to the elation I have felt when I picked out my first car … I wanted to sleep in it, just to smell it – for weeks … It’s like that: I cannot believe it’s mine, it’s real, and it’s here!

I have bought homes before that didn’t feel this good… The place I bought after my divorce did feel like this: just a new start, new beginning. It’s good when you have a say in it. It’s different. No matter how well people know you, they always miss at least one thing.

This time around I don’t have to like it , though. When you factor freedom into anything, it suddenly becomes sweeter – that’s for darn sure!

"Confused" Places

There are some places I visit that I can’t quite bring myself to define. I go and I am not sure what my expectations are. I am not even sure I can explain this, but … they’re a mish-mash of a bunch of things. It’s not that they don’t have personality – far be that from true, but … they offer it all and none of one specific thing at the same time …

Let me try to explain.

Take Charleston, SC for instance: when I go there I know I am going to see, I feel, I smell the past. In all its rusty and cobwebby presence. In The Market, I can hear the cries of the slaves and the arrogant laughter of the owners. I can hear the horseshoes hitting the cobblestone. I transport myself in this other time, when dresses were long, ladies were always escorted and gentlemen were still talking about The War, a game of cards and The Trade.

Burnsville, NC is quiet, and it’s like time there forgot to get recorded in some calendar. Any calendar. Old taverns with odd hours, old houses hosting anything from restaurants to libraries, and art stores. You get old Southern food and buy contemporary ceramic art, all in one stop. And one breath. You blink, and you’ve reached the end of the town. You hear “mountain talk”, which is not quite Southern, but very much its own dialect, but you’re wondering where it comes from?! You feel like you’re time travelling, but you’re standing still too …

I go to New York City and I am transported in the future, almost. Even the old (architecture) seems new and revamped, because of all the lights and the billboards! Because of all the steel around it. The old is buried under the new, I should say!

It’s a testimony of where all the “other cities” of the world want to look like in 20 years! But NYC is already there…Time is faster than thoughts, here. Faster than the wind. NYC in clothing style to me is like Microsoft in the computer world: you open the box, and it’s outdated! (thank you, Aa.!).

But then, there is Norfolk, VA. And even DC. And even Atlanta! There is the old, and the new, right besides each other … And they don’t hush each other up, but they don’t make a loud enough statement to claim the personality of the place either …

The Norfolk area is even more confusing, to me –for now. You get Suffolk, which is half old and quaint and small, and half – a cheesy, Suburban jungle that’s still hosting some fine many-a-land full of trailers, until they decide what they want to be.

In Norfolk – you get the high rises and the steel, you get the harbor, but it’s all …industrial looking and cold, right next to the old architecture and old streets as well. And then you go to VA Beach and you get cheesy-beachy- family style plastic modern hotels a la Myrtle Beach right along with age old lighthouses and shotgun houses made of rotten driftwood, it seems. And then there is Portsmouth – and what I have seen of it is like a whisper of Charleston or Savannah. All in the middle of that.

So, the whole area to me … is like a place that has not yet figured out what it wants to be. No, it’s not that’s it’s not grown up yet! It is! But it’s like one of those 60 year olds who is still in school and working part time at the library and part time at the video store, trying to figure out what they want to be. It’s surely interesting …

Judge for yourself: pictures from my last trip there are here.

The Signs

An almost completely trivial post

My friends all know that I love to take pictures of signs. I think I'll put a site together for all the ones I have collected over the years. They inspire me and they give me an insight on how people's minds work, sometimes. And sometimes how they don't. Work, that is...My favorite signs were definitely in New Orleans. That place is wicked full of originality and weirdness though, so that was an easy pick.

The last two trips I took though, I could not take pictures of the signs that "made me go: hmmm...", for various reasons: either I saw them while in a speeding car, or I was on a military base, and my company felt too scared (intimidated?!) to let me shoot. So... I can only talk about them. And I wanted to mention the three that caught my eye, as I find them ... unique.

Only approaching a place like Charlotte, NC, you can see a billboard that reads: "It's not rude! It's racing!". Trust me: I am NOT particularly proud that my new nephew shares his birthday with Dale Earnhardt.

Another sign was on the Fort Story Military Base in Virginia. I thought it was cleverly put, albeit bossy, but hey, we were in Army territory. Growing up with an Army mom, I can understand sternness! It was a speed limit sign, but instead of a boring "25 MPH Speed Limit", it read: "26 MPH is breaking the law". Yes, Sir! I hear ya loud and clear! Now, that is ONE speed limit sign even I will obey!

My friend didn't allow me to shoot that one, although we were stopped, and searched for nefarious objects in our truck. I want one of those signs in my house: I think it's brilliant!

My favorite sign of this year belonged to a ... carwash. But hey, with a dirty mind like mine, take it out of context and you have a good (and easy in more ways than one) joke. It read: "Soft touch, touchless or both!". Yes, with the exclamation point, too. Well, heLLo, there, and how YOU doin'?!

Coming Home

"We're trying for something that's already found us." (Jim Morrison)

I have been on the road a lot this year, it seems.
Atlanta ... Norfolk ... Arlington... DC ... Blowing Rock .... Raleigh ... Montreal ... Norfolk again ... And I am planning at least four more trips till the year closes ...
One question allows itself to peek its ugly head and interrupt me: what am I looking for?!

My dad used to (still does) leave us for a day ... a couple of days ... a week ... one time even a month ... when things got "ugly" at home. You know: just too much to handle. I always wondered what was he going out there for? Why was he not just talking it out, and resolving whatever it was that bugged him... Why did he have to leave us?!

And that was my most horrifying feeling: what if dad, the most sturdy pillar of the home, will not come back? What if he will be distracted out there, in the world, and never come back? So many nights I have lost (used?) praying God to bring him back. And God always listened.

I feel like now, I grew up to be my dad, ironically... when things get "ugly" here, I wander ...

Are the loneliness, and emptiness, and pain that I have felt this year sending me out on the road so much? And I am looking for some kind of answer from the world? I feel like that's a double "yes".
I wish I could call dad and ask him what he found in all those wanderings. But we're not supposed to talk about the wanderings. Those are his alone. I am sure, though, he found some kind of strength to keep going. Or did he find it "there" ...?!

I am not sure what I found if anything. Higher gas prices and lots and lots of accumulated tiredness for sure. Lots of miles on my car. Seeing friends, and bonding, shooting some beautiful corners of the world, sure ....
But is the pain gone? The loneliness? The emptiness?

Not that sure ...

I cooked dinner tonight. And Fero was standing in front of my oven sniffing the garlic and rosemary flavor seeping through the oven door. Gypsy was asleep, upside down, on the dining room chair, and Little Kitty was passed out on a shelf, listening to "An American Prayer"...

And for the first time this year, I felt like the puzzle pieces have come together ...Finally. For the first time, in eight months, I was not only home. I felt home.

Not sure why, but the smell in the oven, and my house, full with cats and me, and my thoughts has felt fuller than it has in years ...

I guess I needed to go out to rediscover the in. What's new, right?!

Whatever the reason: I am grateful God listened once more. And that I am back.

Another picture of Home

Good as Fried Pickles

There are many the reasons why I head out of town, for a day trip:

-a nice hike in the mountains somewhere - like Hanging Rock or Stone Mountain;
-wine tasting - Chateau Morrisette, in Floyd, VA;
-picture taking opportunities - like Chinqua Penn, in Reidsville or the Mabry Mill in VA;
-just love of food - like the olive tasting at Villa Appalachia, in the Blue Ridge Parkway in VA, or the delicious trout po’ boy in Blowing Rock, at The Speckled Trout;
-boredom: just to see where roads can take me.

Sometimes might be sick people or puppies I want to visit. This was the reason for the last trip to Charlotte, on Saturday. But, we, in Romania, have a saying that would translate something like: ‘The plan at home and the one in town never match’. And most times they don’t.

I went to Charlotte to play with a sick pup, who turned out to be feeling much better that day, and I came back with a new destination for a “food day trip”.

Signs of "The Penguin"

And here’s how it happened. While there, I had lunch at The Penguin, in the Plaza Midwood neighborhood of Charlotte, and a landmark in its own right, as I was to find out. The place is small, and has tons of character, and instead of wallpaper they might as well tape all their awards on the walls – they cover pretty much every inch of wall space. Anything from “the best bbq” to “the best juke box” – they’ve won it at some point or another.

The wait was long, but you know they’re good when that happens. The food was generous in size, very inexpensive and absolutely out of this world delicious! At least by my standards.

I love places that just cook and don’t try to be fancy for the sake of being different. The bbq sandwich was simply un-messed-around with! Just smoky, sweet flavor of pig! You could distinctively taste the hours and hours of roasting, and nothing else. Not goopy with bbq sauce that completely steals the taste of the meat, like most places. The meat spoke for itself. Cole slaw just enough to accompany the flavor and not overpower it. And then … there were the fried pickles.

What an eye opener! Those – I had never had before. Nor have ever heard of! When people tell me “you can get anything deep fried in the South”, I am skeptical. But, boy, I assume, now, that you just might!

Fried pickle chips: just slices of pickles, dunked in batter and deep fried, then you dip them in ranch! Holy Heavens what an addictive dish! Plain, simple, delicious and boy, a dish that is asking for yet more and more beer! And I guess that’s what they were thinking, too, right?!

Now, as a lover of pickles and ranch and anything fried, this was easy love for me. But I tell you, even non-pickle lovers (I eat pickle spears for snacks like folks eat carrots, all right? So, trust me: I LOVE them!!), like my friend, could enjoy them just as well! I was just surprised how wonderful they tasted for such a simply made dish! Again: just plain, simple, hones-to-goodness food – "pretty", gourmet food Iron chefs eat your hearts out!

I am now on the lookout for fried pickles in Greensboro, and I only came across one place (Google, thank you!), that’s across town. Of course, I’ll try it out just to compare. Or I might start making them myself. But you’ll never forget your first. And trust me: you gotta be pretty darn good to top those!

In this ever changing, ever fast, ever over-super-seized world of ours, there is something to be said for simplicity! Now, if they had a “the best food find of the year” award or “the best food destination”, you know I’d be the first one to throw a vote in. Or maybe many!

An Inappropriate "Thank You" Note?!

I still remember that phone call that my dad got. My mom, on the other line, she is to this day the head of a hospital lab, and she was telling him about the "awful" disease that she herself just discovered I had.

Dad was in tears. I didn't know why. All I heard him say was: "Oh, GOD! She will never be normal. No kids. Not much for food. What CAN she eat?? No life, pretty much. Who knows how long she's got?!" - I will never forget those words, and dad crying.

I didn't get to hear what mom said, and I didn't know about whom they were talking, but I knew it was not good. They had just found out about my genetic disease, and they were preparing for the worst. I had no clue what "the worst" meant, though. I was 6.

From then on, whatever I 'had' became part of my life. Became a lifestyle. I never questioned "why me". I never blamed my parents for it, although they do enough of that themselves. I just took it as it was, just like one gets used to not being a blond, nor tall, nor with antelope legs. Whatever that was, was part of me; and grew with me. Only later in life I suffered because it made me lose men I loved, and kept me from doing things I wanted to do. But that was later. And even then, I accepted my fate.

As part of living my life, the best I was able, I had hundreds if not thousands of doctors' appointments all these years since that phone call. Tests after tests, that "normal" people don't do till they're 65-70-80 or never. Blood drawn every week. Month. Every three months. Every 6 months. What have you. Industrial quantities (only a mild exaggeration) of drugs, always changing, diets, etc. No cure, of course. Just meds to "prolong life", and that's about it. Just fighting the clock. Every year I add to my "resume" is a good year, to brag about to my doctors. Again: my life! I never complain about it, and unless prompted and asked, I don't talk much about it. It's so much who I am, that I almost don't think about mentioning it much to folks.

But there was a huge side effect to it all - aside from the drug-induced ones: I hate doctors! I hate going to see one, I hate their indifference, for the most part, and the way they treat you like a book chapter.Their only merit in me being alive today is that are allowed by law to write prescriptions. I have a TON of respect for pharmacists and researchers, but ... docs ... they're just scriveners with a VERY expensive degree to me. And of course, a very high rate! They are the highest paid spectators of life as it happens, have you noticed that?! And yes, I am generalizing, but trust me: I have seen enough of them to be entitled to this! I have friends who are doctors, and agree with me 100%! And of course, every rule has exceptions, so we won't touch those. But I digress...

I have doctors' appointments like some people go to the grocery store: regularly. And I mean at least 10-15 times a year. Sometimes with "regular" doctors, sometimes (more often) with "specialists".
I am not only used to them, but I also always expect the routine - as it's always the same: give me the co-pay, they shrug, they ALL say "well, *sigh*, you were dealt a bad hand, ma'am. But you LOOK great". And they send me home, with another appointment in hand, and a new combo of meds. And life goes on. And they probably built vacation homes and buy Porches for each member of their families with my money alone, as often as they see me.

So, docs don't phase me anymore. I go to them, like one goes to church, because "the wife makes them", but doesn't "really" believe, you know. But doesn't fight it, either, 'cause they want to "get some" at the end of the week.

Emotionally, I feel no one way or another about them: I don't like them much, but I always go. And I almost always do as they say. Well, this was the case, till this one last time. This last appointment finally stirred some emotion in me. Through my whole Odyssey of doctor appointments , for sooo many years, I never had to be put under - as in given anesthesia, that is... This one last test they did required that. I was terrified, almost, if anything health related can "terrify" me anymore.

A proud control freak (not really "that" proud), I never stomached the idea of total anesthesia! So, I was a little more then apprehensive that you know: I might not make the "trip back". It all went well, thanks to an Iranian anesthesiologist, that was extra careful and probably more afraid of what my body might do than I was myself.

Several days later, I get yet another surprise from this whole frightening experience and also a first for me: I have never, in my life, gotten a "thank you" note from my doctor (any of them) for being their patient... I always felt, and still do, that it might be a bit ... well... inappropriate... "Thank you for being sick"?? - How's that for a recognition?! What should my reaction/ answer be: "Well, you're welcome! I am an encyclopedia your Med School has not written yet, so now, go ahead, have at ME, and plan for your mansion in Palm Springs. You caught a real BIG one this time, you lucky bastard! " ?!

But this time, not only did I get a "thank you" from a doctor, but I did from the first one I was truly afraid to death to make an acquaintance with. And my apprehension left aside, who REALLY needs to be thanked that they were so sick they needed to be put under to do a test?! They didn't even "fix" anything by doing that!

I am still (a little more than) fuzzy on how I should feel about it. This is one of those moments when "nice" is indeed a relative term! Somehow, the fact that I am 33 and I have had to do several MRI's, and a heart cath, and an endoscopy, and a stress test, and several Doppler tests, and hundreds of EKG's and ultrasounds of all my insides, and ... I am not going to go on here... is not a "privilege" to me... I don't care how much business I am providing them, I am really not delighted to find out that they're grateful for it!

I know. Ungrateful till the end, aren't I?! I guess this is a side effect of it all, too. But ask any Poker player: who is EVER grateful or resigned when they've been "dealt a bad hand" and you're allowing everyone else, but yourself, to keep gaining?! Ask them. And get back with me... Till then, I am "fuzzy" still on this letter. I think I'll frame it!

The Legacy

"So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” (Shakespeare – Sonnet 18)

As most of you know, I have lost my best friend this year. Sure, I have many friends, we all do. But we all have that one person, that’s not a relative, that’s not forced by life or heredity on us, that we choose and pick our own selves to be our friend. It’s a conscious and troublesome search, but when we finally make that choice, it’s like we’ve arrived in this heaven-like place, and nothing can quite go wrong from there on out. It’s much like we must have felt like in the womb, or in mom’s arms when we were a month old! Secure, unconditional love, and acceptance! More than anything: acceptance! Just safety to be whoever we are around them, and assurance that they can return that favor as well.

He has left us on February 21^st and I cannot say the pain or the emptiness that he has left with me has diminished or filled at all yet. I know, I know: it’s not been a year yet, and he was a huge presence and a great person, I need to give it time. But still.

To this day, I have moments when it doesn’t register that he is gone; it does not register that I cannot pick up the phone and call him to give him a hard time about … anything … or just talk about dogs and cats and the weather with him!

I have been playing around dialogues in my head that we would have, when we’d travel, or when we’d find the next best joint for mashed potatoes, or the next best sweet tea flavor – and they are unfortunately going to remain in my head … He loved children, and I would so have wanted to share the wonder of holding my nephew in my arms with him! He would have probably have sent a “slugger” onsie with me to Canada for him! Or even a baseball bat! Most definitely!

Every single day of my life, at one moment or another, he seems to be ever present!

And I have found out that that presence is not mine alone: his family, and many other friends have organized baseball games, and trips and opened a scholarship fund in his memory. The ones left behind have all stayed in touch, and we have been thinking of each other and him on his birthday (July 25^th), we have talked about him, and exchanged stories about who he was, and how different he was for all of us, but in essence, how important to all of us! The fact that we had ever so different and diverse stories on him made us realize what a complex, multi-faceted and whole person he truly was!

This past weekend, one of his good friends (R.) organized a memorial mention of him on the baseball stadium in town. Several co-workers attended, and some of his family, as well, and his two brothers threw the first and second honorary pitches that night.

Jeff's brothers waiting for the go on the pitches

It was a beautiful night, one that even Jeff would approve of: a Southerner who hated the sun (he would argue that the sun hated him!), he would have loved the cool night we had once the sun set on the Grasshoppers Stadium (I’ll call it that, after our local team, although the name keeps changing according to whomever the sponsor bank is that year).

While the honorary pitches were thrown, the announcer went through a brief description of who Jeff was, written by his friend, R., and how you can contribute to his scholarship fund, a sport writing scholarship, with the University of Virginia, while the scoreboard showed pictures of Jeff, his black lab mix, Floyd, and of some of his passions: like The Phillies, and other baseball game pictures.

Scoreboard mention: Jeff and Floyd

It was one minute in time when my heart pretty much stopped and I felt, once again, that maybe he’s there. Baseball was his life. And his love. It was so fitting to commemorate his recent birthday during a baseball game! He’s covered The Grasshoppers numerous times, and he’s listened to the National Anthem, one of his favorite tunes, ring loud on this stadium so many times! He brought his dog to the nights where the stadium organized “bark parks”, so the dog can socialize with other dogs and so he too would be exposed to baseball, you see - maybe?!

To me, it was truly a night just for Jeff. So fitting! The best birthday present we could think of, and I am sure he would agree with that! So, thanks, R. and thanks to his family and folks who came and were there with his spirit!

I’ve had many moments like that since he’s been gone: when I went to DC this summer, when I went to his brother’s house, when I got the word that his house sold, and so forth …

I cherish and treasure those moments! It’s what I have been left with – surely, not enough - it’ll never be enough - since he’s been gone.

And in that moment I was grateful once again to Jeff! He loved harmony. He loved friendship. His dad said at some point that his family was his friends, and once you’ve become his friend, you truly felt that! You truly felt like he’d do anything for you, and will give himself whole just to make you happy.

And this extended family of his continues to live on, even after he’s moved to a higher realm than us. This weekend, more than anything, I have felt the sense of fellowship and friendship that Jeff left behind. It’s wonderful to see how folks who would have definitely not met otherwise, coming from all sorts of walks of life, and cities and states (Raleigh, Durham, Winston, Maryland, Colorado, Greensboro) were sitting there, watching a baseball game (Jeff’s favorite, of course) and chatting and catching up, and sharing Jeff stories.

That is one of the most treasured times I have spent this year! Meaningful hugs from his family almost stopped my breath and made me tear! Every second of this Saturday night, I thanked him for those bonding moments we all shared!

One of his co-workers said at some point, half sarcastically and half caringly: “We won’t let this guy go, will we?!” – well, yeah – we won’t! Why should we?! He’s given us himself. And a great lesson of love, giving, patience and courage. And on top of everything: he’s given us each other.

We all, that we’ve been mourning his passing, have found that we are not alone. That the world is an intricate web and that we’re all connected! That nothing is ever random! He’s united us in pain as well as in laughter, when we recount endless numbers of stories about what a great friend, brother, son, co-worker, life partner he was to all of us. He’s taught us, now, in his absence, that we all can make or break each other … And so far, we’ve been making it through the tragedy of losing him because we’ve been there for one another.

Sometimes I feel guilty and selfish: I feel like through keeping him alive, we’re trying to heal ourselves from hurting so excruciatingly bad for losing him. But I think he would approve! I know he would! The one thing he was most worried about was everyone’s pain that he might cause by leaving us and how he can prevent that from happening. And if keeping him in our thoughts, prayers, activities would heal that pain, he would graciously, as ever, sign off on it!

I just wanted to say, once more, a big huge THANK YOU to Jeff: for everything he’s given us, even after he’s left us: a group of friends, and his family to call our friends, and to share memories in his name with. That is the ultimate gift, I believe, so generous and so him!

The Grasshoppers did poorly. Just like The Nationals in DC this July, for his first memorial game get-together. But like Jeff would say: “It’s just a game. There are winners and losers. Someone’s gotta be one or the other”. And off the field, in the stands, I feel like we’re all winners, because we’ve all known him. And he’s put his graceful hand print on all of us before he’s waved us “good bye”. Such a blessing!

Again, the only thing I can say is: “Thank you” – for the gift, love, inspiration, and friendship. Thank you for ... you.

A beautiful evening and night

Being Scarlett

When I was in maybe 8th grade, which is a long, long time ago, I read Gone with the Wind.
Up to that point my parents were short of killing me or exchanging me for a stray kid (in Romania we have those!!) because I hated to read. Well, that book cured me from that hatred. And gave me a role model for the rest of my life. Pretty much.

I know it sounds corny. And I know it sounds a little girlie and childish, but Scarlett O'Hara has been my role model since 8th grade. I was in love with the woman. I was ready to imitate and incorporate every single eye lash batting and cutesy frown to get my way. I practiced for months, years maybe, how to raise just one eyebrow to let people know I am mad, or I am not getting my way. And more than anything, I have always, consciously or not, been chasing the men I cannot have!

Since that book, I have always dreamed to live in the American South ( I was in Romania when I read it, and knew no one that lived anywhere near America), to seem ever so weak and feeble but but be a tower of strength and power. And if you look back at my life, you can see some resemblance...No, I don't have her money and wealth or entrepreneurial sense, but I have her determination and I follow my dream to completion, that's for darn sure.

Lately, I have thought a lot about Scarlett. Lately, things have become too overwhelming indeed. A family trip with all the emotion packed up; tons of friends you cannot always please; a questionable and very stressful job that you cannot control; health issues you'd rather do without, but can "they" (the health issues) do without you is the question?! And so forth...

True to my Scarlett self, I have pushed through it all, stubbornly, and frowned and raised an eyebrow. And I am still here, weathering the storms of this year. I can't say I have accomplished much so far this year, but I can say I feel strong. And for the storms I cannot overcome, I can say I shoo them away with a shrug, just to keep my sanity, and tell them all to wait till tomorrow and maybe I'll have time then for them.

Even great Scarlett could not solve all the dramas in her life in one day, or several; and her famous last line has been my best friend lately. Most of the things around me, that lately have caused pain, or insecurity have been put off with a shrug till "tomorrow".

I cannot worry about all of them anymore. I know there is a job waiting for me tomorrow. And a home. And somewhere, spread all over the world a loving family, despite all the steam we put out when we meet. For now, I know I am safe. Surely, all of it seems shaky: the economy, and paper business and thus my livelihood can be gone tomorrow, but what's the point in worrying?! No one seems to be hiring now anyway. No one seems to be hiring what I can offer, that is... And the friends will be friends, or if they're lost, they're not worth keeping, right?? So, why worry there?! And you cannot make family mad enough, because they're always there. That's a given. So, for all the things that do worry me, or do make me mad, I'll put it off to worry about it tomorrow.

It's a temporary peace - I know. But it's sooo sweet! And "after all, tomorrow is another day", isn't it?!?

It makes for a peaceful rest of the summer, I tell you!

Just Because They Can !!

I have never claimed to be a very sophisticated human being... Never. I am very simple minded and one of those very rationalistic folks for whom white and black exist, but gray is never an option. I don't like to be lied to, and I have trouble with wishy-washy- ness and half truths. With made up excuses, too!

I find it very difficult to deal with our airline system anymore, because of all those. Everything is fun and games till everything seems like highway robbery, you know!! And I love flying... so this took a lot out of me: after my most recent trip, I really, seriously, thought of driving to Canada next time around!

You've read my rants before, when I was annoyed by the $5 charges for alcohol on international flights, and also annoyed at paying $50 for one extra pound of luggage ... Now, every time I fly I find yet another new charge to add to my spending money! It's almost like paying for the trip twice anymore. And it's getting beyond ridiculous ...

And not just the charges, but everything else: the overbooking, the delayed flights for no reason, other than "the pilot is still asleep" or "we're missing a part" ... The uncertainty of it all, the nightmare of always having to deal with "Oh, my meeting is on the 24th, so I have to leave my home town on the 22nd to make sure I make it by then..." - it's crazy! And counterproductive to all!
And this is JUST in the United Wonderful States of America!!

We claim to be the strongest economical power of the world - really?? We treat our own people, our business people who make our money like THIS?? Because our business people commute maybe more than any business people in the world! It's embarrassing!!

My family and I travel on a number of various airlines, internationally and in Northern America: Air France, Lufthansa, KLM, Canadian Air, Austrian Airlines - and we never experience more delays, more expensive tickets, and more unexpected and unjustified charges, more rude staff, more cancellations than we experience with ANY American Airline we travel with. And we typically use Delta, Northwest, United and US Airways - so, not just one.

To make this not too long, this is my complaint list this time:

We all knew about the checked luggage charges. That, to me, is unjustified and ridiculous! People have ALWAYS had checked luggage!!!! People travel for pleasure as well as for business, the customs form of any country will tell you that! If you take a 2 week vacation with two kids, there is no way in hell you're not going to have checked luggage. Especially in the winter! Especially with the restrictions for traveling with liquids on you. You'll need shampoo, and cologne, and who knows what else?? And we all expected it , always, since the beginning of times (or ... when I started traveling in 1998) to be included in the ticket. God Almighty knows: it costs enough!! To say that you're charging for checked luggage because prices of gas went up is a bunch of stinking bologna and nothing else!

Let me give you just a few numbers - as I said: I am simple minded, I can't get into fancy math here:

- my ticket to Romania used to cost $600 when I first came here, 10 year ago... After 9/11, it went up to $800 - for extra security costs... OK!
- After Katrina and The War and "gas prices going up every year", it went to $1000, and then to $1300 , and now they are $1500 - because, allegedly, gas went up! OK! So, you factored that in, right? Well, wrong!
- The weight limit for a checked luggage went down from 72 lbs to 50 lbs! "Because gas is expensive"... OK!
- Now, you're CHARGING for checked luggage ... because ... well, "gas is more expensive"...
- The food and drinks: we used to get pretzels and peanuts on North American flights (Canada included) - not anymore; can't afford it, you see?? It's the darn gas, again ...
- we still get free sodas (for now, I am sure), but if we want COFFEE ... it's $1 a cup! Beer and wine went from $5 to $7! - at least with US Air; how do you justify ALL these??? You guessed it: "gas is more expensive" - how they are related , beats the crap outta me!!!!

This time around, from my own personal travel experience, I have a whole new laundry list of complaints I want to post:

- $25 charge for each lag of my trip for a second suitcase ($50 total) - although I booked this trip WAY before the checked luggage regulations - they came in sometime in June; I booked the trip in April;
- $66 charge for the airport parking - they "forgot" to update the website with the new rate - I read there that it was only $44 for 11 days, if I park in the overflow lot... WRONG!
- I saved on the coffee I wanted because I didn't get a cup , after my flight mate paid $3 for 3 cups of Minnie-Me cups that looked like dentists' rinsing Dixie cups. And he also got the "I am NOT your servant and I don't make the rules. $1 a cup of coffee - take it or leave it" treatment from the stewardess, too! Just in those words!
- and I have experienced a new American only gem: the double and triple booking. In two of my flights (out of 4 - a 50% chance is all we can ask for in a civilized economy!) the plane was overbooked: in other words, you had 20 seats, and 25 passengers with boarding passes!

The gate folks actually came to the podium, and one time they even had printed material to post (this is an often occurrence you see) that told us that we would be rewarded a free round trip on US Airways if we gave up our boarding pass and boarded a later flight! Forget about what OUR needs were, what OUR meeting, or work schedule was like - they were asking us to "volunteer to give up the seats"... I didn't. I made the reservations in April! I think I was entitled to a seat.

And get this: I typically travel internationally to Canada, Holland, Germany, Romania - mostly ... Any of these countries offer "free" checked luggage ("free" as "included in the ticket") AND free drinks and snacks on their flights. EVEN internally, not only internationally! Even Romania !!! Gas in those countries is ALWAYS, without exception, more expensive than American gas! When I talk to my Romanian parents about $4 a gallon gas prices they laugh! Their gas has been $4 a gallon, since ours was $2.50!!!
I just got back from Canada, where the lowest is $5.20 a gallon!!!

And ALL these charges are occurring, people, when the ticket prices are rising!!!! I used to pay $800 for a trip to Europe. Now, in the off season, it's $1200!! I used to pay $300 for a trip to Canada. Now, it's $600, plus all the crap I told you before: checked luggage, weight limit, more parking and such!
I just rest my case, because I hope you get the picture...

Sure, I understand staying competitive, and market economy and cost of living - I am not a complete idiot by all means! But these are triple and double and quadruple charges for the same excuse. These are insults! What is the purpose of travel if you're expected to travel naked, with nothing but the ticket on you?! And you're expected to live on a plane, for hours on end (some trips take 3-4 hours, right?!) with no food - some layovers are as short as 15 minutes. Who has the time for the McDonald's line in 15 minutes??? These are necessities, and not commodities, when we expect our working class to commute this way!

It's become such a decadent industry this airline business... Sure, they can peel off our skin and say it's for gas as well... I mean: why not?? They already strip us of our "liquids"... America, "the Greatest" is great indeed! We must fly, or else we can't get there fast - because the territory is so vast! So, they've got us by the balls, as my ex-husband so eloquently would put it!

I am just ashamed to admit I live in a country that brags about power and sovereignty and polices the world, but cannot keep its sh^t straight when it comes to at least two basic needs: safe and affordable transportation and health care! It's such a shame!!

In my travels, I thought I have seen it all: canceled flights just because it's Tuesday, change of seats in the last minute, at the gate, just so The Police can accommodate a jailed person traveling (don't we pay taxes for their planes, and cars and such?? - who knows??), decrease of weight in the amount we can pack in the checked luggage, gratuitous rudeness, more charges for just the air we breathe ... but I am telling you: I am keeping this list open for the future! Because I ain't gonna stop flying. I might stop flying to Canada, but I can't stop flying. And I will continue to bitch, as I am sure the list will continue to grow!

People hated and judged Clinton's guts because he admitted he did something "just because he could", on a more or less personal level alone, but I see no one boycotting this bull-sh^t of travel industry that we now present to the world and to all our citizens because they're robbing us blind, just because "they can"...

Times have changed. As they always do!

Staying True to Roots - A Challenge?! Or a Given?!

Or “A rose by any other name…”

More from The Diaper Club’s Journals

One of the many reasons for which I love my faith is the many rituals, and traditions we have associated with it. Nothing is ever done randomly, nothing is ever an accident. Everything has a purpose, and a significance, and to me that makes the Orthodox tradition so rich. Whether you truly believe in these things, or not, it matters little to me. Just the rite of it all gives purpose to each service, and curiosity to what’s next.

One of the downsides to these rites, superstitions, and more-or-less layman’s believes associated with the church is that every church, every village, every county, every family has slightly different rituals and slightly different understandings of these “add-ons”…

And nothing is more confusing, I found, than trying to respect or align all these into a church that’s thousands of miles away from home…

I christened my nephew this weekend, and the service was held in a Romanian Orthodox church called “Inaltarea Domnului” or “The Ascension” in Montreal. I am not sure where the priest is from, originally, what part of Romania that is, but judging by his accent he’s not from the far North East where we’re from. That right there is a first sign that what he believes and what we believe will be different, in terms of ritual, not faith proper. Then, there will be the Canadian imposed “rules”, which surely have changed since the church has moved in North America, several years ago …

Before the Christening, I was completely confused: some of my sister’s friends, who have baptized their children in various Romanian churches here, in Canada, were advising me of certain rituals that I am supposed to attend to, as a Godmother; my own mother was advising me of others, and everyone was butting heads, as none of what we knew or thought we knew matched what everyone around us was telling us:

I was supposed to come to church not only with the baby, but a candle, and ribbon (the longer the ribbon, the longer my nephew’s life), but also a towel for Patrick, my nephew, a towel for the priest, an Orthodox icon to be blessed, or was it a cross according to some?, or a Bible, according to others?, wine, and flour (for wine and bread, Jesus’s blood and body), or was it wine and oil (for wine and myrrh) … soap for the priest …

Others were advising that we need also money, but no one agreed on the amount and who would be responsible for giving it and to whom? Is it the mother and dad that pay to have the child christened? Or the Godmother? Is it $150 or $250? Does the priest take it all, or are the altar boys and the choir entitled to some?

And so forth …

And so we called the priest and played dumb! And the list from the priest was as follows: candle, white or blue (he’s a boy) ribbon (“1 meter long”, the priest said – I guess the priest figured a 1 meter worth of life would be long enough – I brought him 1.5m just to make sure), soap, towel for priest, white towel or cotton sheet for baby, new clothes, olive oil (none of that vegetable, canola crap: after all, in Israel back when Jesus walked the earth there surely was none of that!!) , red sweet wine (when we take communion in my church we don’t fuss around with grape juice, thank you very much; Jesus said wine at the Last Supper, we have wine, by Goodness! And I guess it must be sweet so kids can enjoy it too), a cross on a chain, to be blessed, so the baby will have something to protect him for life, and $150 for the christening charge. As you can imagine: all the “gratuities” were not included.

I was responsible to buy and bring all of the above, except for the gratuities. Since we’re in the family, we split the responsibilities, and my sister and brother in law came up with those.

And we thought we were set! We had the list complete, the baby ready, fed, rested and well … and we headed to church. We never even thought of that the most important thing, um… the name of the baby, would be cause of controversy as well! We never thought twice that what his parents chose for months, what was in all his official papers, from hospital discharge papers to birth certificate and social security card, was going to be an issue!

As the Godmother, I held the baby throughout the service, and every page the priest turned with his reading, he would bow to me and ask: “Are you sure we’re staying JUST with the name ‘Patrick’??” – “Yes, Father!” was my answer. “Just ONE name?” – “Yes, Father!” – “And it is ‘Patrick’??” – he’d add in awe and somewhat disbelief like he didn’t like it … And my relentless “Yes, Father!” would follow.

As you can imagine “Patrick” is not a Romanian name. My sister picked a name that would be OK in Romanian but also would be perfectly easy and convenient for the part of the world where he’d be raised and go to school. They have a very odd and hard to spell and pronounce family name, so she thought a more Western (French and English) first name would be in order. Plus, Patrick is a strong, full of tradition and history, Catholic, Irish name and she loves and respects that culture as well, so it was perfect!

When the priest saw that he had no luck with me, he turned to the parents. He told them point blank that they must pick a “more Romanian name, something to be associated with a Saint, and something to remind Patrick of his true origins”. He assured them the ‘Romanian’ name would be for religious and baptismal purposes only, it will never go to his paperwork, and that will be a name given to him in front of God, it would be sort of a blessed, holy name.

My brother in law laughed, politely, and said: “His name is Patrick, Father!”. My sister’s the impressionable one, and whispered to her husband: “Honey, what about Stefan?” – which is “Stephen” in Romanian. My brother in law sent daggers out of his eyes and said to her : “Absolutely NOT!”. She tried further: “But it won’t be in papers”…. The priest waited with his back towards us, as I was holding the sleeping angel Patrick in between the feuding parents and the awaiting priest, while my brother in law turned to my sister for the last time: “NO!”. The priest turned, question in his eyes: “Well??” – I said: “ One name, Father. Patrick”. And the service went on.

And Patrick it will be. Mom was annoyed as well, as she reminded us that the Romanian Orthodox calendar mentions Saint Patrichie, which is the Romanian for “Patrick” of course, on May 19^th, and that should be his guardian saint and “church” name. That was also the day Patrick was brought home for the first time from the NICU, so that is so fitting.

The following day, after the Sunday service, I took the new Christian to have his first communion and to be taken into the Altar (a privilege only boys have in my faith) by the priest. After the lengthy service (that Sunday we celebrated another feast, of St. Pantelimon, the Healer) the priest came to the podium and along with a long list of demands from the crowd he went into a 10 minute rant about how beautiful the story of St. Pantelimon is, and what an honor for those who have that name, and also how he doesn’t understand how immigrant parents in Canada are already forgetting their roots, and not naming children by Romanian saint names, like tradition orders. And how un-holy of us, immigrant parents, to encourage the children to forget their roots.

My brother in law, who is known for his sarcasm and ability to turn anything into a big joke, now calls his son Patrick-Stefan-Pantelimon, to make the priest, his mother and all the Archangels happy!

Of course, you can argue this in 1000 different ways! But I have a firm belief that we’re all God’s children. And as Patrick will come to God, in pure thought, prayer and with humility, things which only we as parents and family can teach and encourage, he will receive God’s blessing whether his name will be Patrick, or Jimmy, or Bottleneck! It doesn’t matter … I think …

And trust me, with two Romanian speaking parents, 40 Romanian speaking friends of the family and two Romanian families, it does not matter where he’ll live: as long as he has all of that around him, he will never forget he’s Romanian. I can make sure of that!

For God’s sake, this child will be raised on borsch and mamaliga, on sarmale and mici, while his pals at school will eat burgers and hotdogs – you REALLY think he won’t know where his roots are??? Doubtful!

God bless you, my love, and I know you’ll make that name proud!

Pictures here: share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0BcOWLFs1bsWFW